The Saturday Evening Post 1925-10-17: Vol 198 Iss 16

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An Illustrated Weekly
Founded A? J Benj. Franklin

Volume 194, Number 16

OCTOBER 17,1925 | 5cts. THE COPY

Ben Ames Williams—F. Britten Austin
Mary Roberts Rinehart-—-Henry Milner Rideout—Kenneth L. Roberts
Wythe Williams—Marjory Stoneman Douglas— William Hazlett Upson

When eating away from home, special

care should be taken to maintain a

wise diet. Tou can have your morning

Cream of Wheat anywhere—it is

served in all hotels, restaurants and
dining cars

Try this 3 mornings for
a better day’s work

Tomorrow morning start the simple
breakfast habit— with Cream of Wheat.
Thousands of men find in its energy a
new efficiency for the morning job.

Try it for just 3 mornings and see
the difference. New energy, new
keenness, new endurance! Here are 3
model breakfast menus suggested by
noted nutrition authorities:

First morning

Oranges
Cream or WHeat
Sugar — Milk
Buttered Toast
Coffee or Cocoa

Second morning

Not one man in ten thousan

feeds himself properly”

Cream or Wueat with Dates
Milk
Omelet or Bacon
Toast — Butter
Coffee or Cocoa

says Samuel G. Blythe

you worked with your hands outdoors.

Every man at fifty is a problem. In his " F
y ) P Third morning

entertaining book, “Keeping Fit at Fifty”,
Samuel G. Blythe, well known writer,
tells what he did in his own case and gives
some sound advice to other men.

When Mr. Blythe reached his fiftieth
birthday, he took an inventory of himself
and other men his age. And he deduced
these two general facts:

“The most important function of a man’s
life is the way he feeds himself. But more
important still, “Not one man in ten thou-
sand feeds himself properly!”

An “overstoked furnace”, he calls the
average man of sedentary habits. Too
much food, too rich, heavy food—this is
why he starts slowing down!

If you work at a desk
you cannot handle the
same kind or the same
amount of food as if

The time to start eating right is with the
first meal of the day. You do not need a
big, heavy breakfast. It only puts an undue
burden upon digestion.

Your first and greatest morning need is
energy. Energy to get you started on the
day's run.

This is just what Cream of Wheat sup-
plies. It is one of the very finest energy
foods because it is exceptionally rich in
carbohydrates or energy units.

Cream of Wheat not only supplies energy
but it saves energy because it uses so little
in digestive work. It is in such simple
form it is digested quickly, with a mini-
mum of work.

With a Cream of Wheat breakfast you
get all you need and just what you need—
vital energy! And you get it without
burdening digestion as heavier foods do.

2 ~

Cream or Wueat with Baked Apple

Milk
Buttered Toast
Bacon
Coffee or Cocoa

&

nd for Free Sample
and Book of 50 Recipes

We have a sample box of Cream of Wheat
for this breakfast test, which we will send
you free. We will also send our recipe book
which gives 50 delightful ways to serve this
famous energy food not only as a morning
cereal but in desserts, meat, vegetable and
cheese dishes for luncheon and supper. Fill
out the coupon and mail today; get started
on this help to “keeping fit’’.

Cream of Wheat Company
Dept. 110, Minneapolis, Minnesota

oO Please send me, free, your recipe booklet,
"50 Ways of Serving Cream of Wheat.”

(DD Pease send me a free sample box of Cream of Wheat.

Cyeam Wheat

Cream of Wheat Company, Minneapolis, Minnesota Name

In Canada, made by Cream of Wheat Company, Winnipeg

@ 1925, C.at W. Co

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

+ Men are wearing a new type h

extremely smart—a unique feature gives them
3 to 4 times ordinary wear

We are now offering the
new feature — Ex Toe —in a [
smart new line of plain colors. In f
New York and other large cities
these have met with instant
popularity. The Holeproof low
prices remain unchanged.

All the reinforcement is hidden at the toe.
The part the world sees is superlatively
sheer and webby.

Va

ee

HOLEPROOF HOSIERY COMPANY, MILWAUKEE. WISCONSIN

PEER ATR

A new way of knitting has solved the problem of socks that wear out at the toe. Rich, webby

silks afford exclusive smartness and trim fit. Look like Fifth Avenue. Wear like Main Street

T LAST every man can afford to wear smart
Pian A new way has been found to in-
crease their wear 3 to 4 times.

You pay only the price of ordinary kinds, but
you get sheer, lustrous silks. All are faultlessly
correct. All fit around the ankles with extraor-
dinary trimness.

And you may have your choice of eleven new
colors that haye become immensely popular in
the cities that dictate styles.

No extra cost. Stillyseventy-five cents and a
dollar for the silks.

No wonder there are millions wearing them
today. Where else can equal value be obtained?

You have seen smart socks. You have seen
long wearing socks. But never have you seen
such a combination before. They follow a dis-

covery made by men who know the science of
fine knitting. They are the result of an entirely
different principle.

The new way of knitting
The new feature, Ex Toe, is more than ordinary

reinforcing. All other hose are reinforced, yet
nine out of ten wear out the toe first.

Ex Toe is a new and entirely different way of
knitting. That’s why it’s an achievement.

The extra protection at the toe is hidden. Not
several thicknesses, but specially woven thread of
extraordinary strength. No bunching. No dis-
comfort. Extfa wear is gained by scientific means.

See these rich silks today. Choose from the
smart new colors. If you prefer other materials
you will find them at still lower prices. Be sure
to ask for Ex Toe. If you can’t get them at your
store write direct.

ffoleproof |x Toe Hasiery

HOLEPROOF HOSIERY COMPANY OF CANADA, LIMITED, LONDON, ONTARIC

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST October 17,1925

. : P s
2 INTRA A ha RRR A gg My gm

_ ue me
. }
4 ‘ yy

College men will wear a double This is the new dinner jacket that is
breasted suit this fall 7 two or three being worn by college men; full trou-
buttens wide shoulders, easy drape sers; wide shoulders, soft, easy drape

nd ba ba be nd eed ee be

THESE SUITS HAVE THE COLLEGE MAN'S OK
FOR FALL

They're just the way the style leaders in the universities want them; fabrics are right;
details are right; colors are right; prices are right |
* oh?

In the center is the new 2-button single breasted coat

HART SCHAFFNER & MARX

C. BH. Ludi

iem Boyd, Ad

Published Weekly

The Curtis I Publishing
Company

Cyrus H. K. Curtis, President
rm Vice-President and oe

P. S. Collins, Genere! Business Ma:
Wolter D. Fuller, Secretary
vi

Independence Savas Phalcdsinnte

London: 6, Henrietta Street
Covent Garden, W.C.

THE SATURDA

EVENING POST

Founded A°D' 1728 Sy Benj. Franklin

Copyright, 1925. by The Curtis Publishing Compeny in the United States and Great Britsin
Title Registered in U. S. Patent Office and in Foreign Countries

George Horace Lorimer
EDITOR

Frederick S. Bigelow, A.W. Neoli.
Thomes B.Costain, Wesley W. Stout,
. Y. Riddell, Thomas L. Masson,

Associote

En oe 14, 1879,
Polat ge ns roel
is Me. 4 ag og

Sata Mit Co eh co

Entered Surpad-Chae lease Matter at the
Post-Ofice Depertment, Ottews, Gonads

Volume 198

Sc. THE COPY

PHILADELPHIA, PA., OCTOBER 17, 1925

$2.00 THE YEAR

Number {6

EWT DUNNACK, returning to Fra-
ternity after a ten years’ absence,
traveled by boat from Boston to
East Harbor; and this in spite of the

fact that he was extremely
subject to seasickness and
dreaded the possible dis-
comfort of the voyage.
His reason for choosing the
steamer was that it was
somewhat cheaper than the
train, and he saved a fur-
ther sum by sleeping in an
upper bunk in the men’s
cabin instead of paying fora
stateroom. Not that Newt
was in financial straits; but
it was his old habit to live
frugally, and needless ex-
penditure of money was al-
ways painful to him.

The trip from Boston
was made, as it happened,
over a placid sea; and the
decks of the steamer heaved
hardly more than the floor
of a hotel room. The only
mishap in connection with
the voyage occurred at
Rockland in the morning,
where Newt chanced to
drop a ten-cent piece in
such a way that it rolled
across the deck and fell
into the waters of the har-
bor, quite beyond recovery.
The incident caused him a
good deal of chagrin, for he
hated losing money; he re-
minded himself that dimes
were consistently unlucky
for him. So long as he had
one in his pocket, matters
consistently went amiss;
either he lost the coin itself
or some more burdensome
mischance befell him. He
was inclined to be super-
stitious, and if he had been
less stubborn he might
have taken pains to avoid
this persistent ill luck; but
Newt was willing to risk
the misfortune if he could
have the dime.

As the steamer glided
north along the beautiful
and rugged coast line above
Rockland, he forgot his
mishap in anticipation of
his approaching return to
the home of his youth. The
familiar contours of the
Camden hills held his eye;
and he knew that beyond
them a dozen miles or so lay
Fraternity. An occasional

letter from his mother, or from Sam, had told him of the process of decay and disintegration
which had, since his departure, taken scores of families away from the town. He thought
grimly that there was probably not much left but a crossroads.
must still be a good property, and the old Mudie iouse and farm were worth something.
Now that his father was dead, he had every reason to expect that it would be profitable
for him to come home and take a look at things: He had waited till after his father’s
funeral, thus avoiding the fair probability that he might have been called upon for a

TILLVUSTRATEDO ar w. H#. D.

Newt Greeted Her With a Smile and a Cheerful Word. “‘Glad to Make Your Acquaintance.
Mea Lot About You Ever since This Morning”

But the Mudie mill

By Ben Ames Williams

KOERNER

the porter who offered to carry his bag.
steep hill into the center of town.

eee

Sam's Bean Telling

“As if a bag was going to jump off the boat and swim ashore,”
“You'd think them folks was made of money.”

Then the gangplank came aboard, and he gave up his ticket and went ashore, repulsing
With this in his hand he set out to walk up the
He was a chubby, round man, carrying, in spite of
his abstemious habits at the table, a fair load of flesh; his face was small, and it was
beginning to pucker, as the face of a jockey, forever training to keep down his weight,

MAN OF PLOTS

share of the expenses of that ceremony, Sam
Dunnack had never done anything for him,
Newt reflected; he was under no obligation to
do anything for his father, not even bury him.

He found even Fast
Harbor much changed.
There were more summer
folk about than there had
been ten years before.
Their cottages fringed the
shore for two or three miles
below East Harbor, and
here and there someone
came out to wave at the
boat as she went by, greet-
ing arriving guests who
waved back again from the
upper decks. At one par-
ticularly vociferous wel-
come from a colony of a
score or so of cottages two
miles below the town, the
steamer responded by blow-
ing three blasts on ber
whistle, and bells on the
cottage verandas returned
the salute. Newt thought
critically that it took coai
to brew the steam thus
wasted; that a part of the
fare he had paid went to
pay for that coal. But there
was nothing he could do
about it, and it was, after
all, a matter of smail ac-
count.

Then the boat whis-
tled again, a long hoarse
blast, to announce to the
stevedores and wharf
hands her arrival; and
Newt thought this whistle,
on a calm cool summer
morning when they had
been in sight from the wharf
for ten minutes past, was
totally unnecessary.

“All right to blow in a
fog,”’ he told himself. ‘‘ Safe
thing to do, then. But no
sense in blowing away all
that steam when they can
see her without.”

Before the process of
making a landing was wel!
begun he went below and
got his bag. Instead of
leaving it in the check room,
where a ten-cent fee was
expected, he had bestowed
it under a seat in the upper
saloon, On the lower deck,
waiting to disembark, he
watched with a critical eye
the number of other passen-
gers who were redeeming
checked bags and parcels.
he thought scornfully.

THE SATURDAY

sometimes puckers. Thus he looked curiously like a person
who has just sucked a tump of alum; as though he suffered
from a faint, easily bearable but griping pain, His small
eyes peered out from a nest of tiny wrinkles. This walk
up the hill made him pant a little and he went more
slowly, thinking that some of the passing automobiles
might offer him a lift, but none did so.

“That's state of Maine for you,” he told himself harshly.
“Won't even give a man o ride when they’re going his
way.”

He found East Harbor changed, in some ways almost be-
yond his recognition. In stores where he remembered el-
derly men, young fellows now greeted his entrancg; young
men who had heen boys when he went away, who had suc-
ceeded to the ownership of the establishments through a
long apprenticesip of work and saving. Here and there
he met people he had known; but they returned his greet-
ings doubtfully, and even when he had told them who he
was they evinced no particular delight at seeing him. He
tried to discover something about the affairs of his father,
but few even knew Dunnack was dead, and those who did
know seemed not particularly interested.

He was in no hurry to get out to Fraternity, There was
a furtive instinct in the man which made him desire to
make his entrance rather toward the end of the day, when
dusk was falling, when his coming would not be so gener-
ally remarked, There was no particular reason why he
should be secret, but Newt had a curious liking for making
a mystery of simpie things. He meant to walk in upon
his mother at suppertime.

Toward mid-afternoon he began to investigate possible
means of transportation. The drivers of public automo-
biles in East Harbor had, he presently decided, an agree-
ment among themselves as to the price they would charge
for going ten miles into the country, He found an irri-
tating unanimity in their answers to his inquiries, and an
exasperating disinclination to bargain with him.

He exploded at last to one of them: “‘Ain’t there a driver
in town that’s reasonable?”

“Maybe you can dicker with Uncle Jasper,” the other
replied, And to Newt's question, he explained: ‘You'll
probabiy see him in Post Office Square about this time
o’day.”

Newt found in Uncle Jasper an oldster with a long
tobacco-stained beard, sitting in a sagging two-seated car-
riage behind a decrenit horse. Newt would have preferred
to travel by automobile; but he was willing to sacrifice
speed to economy, so he approached the old man. Uncle
Jasper proved to be decidedly hard of hearing, so that their
negotiations were carried on, by Newt in a shout, by the
other in the patiently hushed tones of the deaf. Newt
asked how much the other would charge to drive him to
Fraternity; and the old man shook his head and said he
guessed he did not want to go so far that night.

“Old hoss don’t git over the ground way he used to,” he
explained apologetically. “Wouldn't git me back’ here.till
way dark.”” He added as an afterthought, his tone faintly
querulous: “ Will Bissell’s truck went out just:a little spell
ago, You could have got you a ride with Andy Wattles.”

Newt said in exasperated undertone, “ Fine time to tell
a man that!”

The old man leaned toward him and asked, “What say?”

Newt raised his voice. “I
said we ought to be able to get
together,” he urged. “‘You’re
in the business. You haven’t
any right to refuse to take a
passenger. How much would
you charge, anyway?”’

“T dunno as I want to go,”
the other repeated. “But I
ain’t had a fare today,” he
added in a dispirited tone, and
after a moment said tenta-
tively, “Two dollars and ahalf.”

“TI don’t want to buy your
outfit!’’ Newt shouted.

And Uncle Jasper asked uncertainly, “Eh?”

“Be reasonable, old man,”’ Newt urged. “Be reason-
able.”

“Well, I want to be fair with a man,” the other pro-
tested unhappily. ‘“ Whatever do you reckon’s right?”

“Dollar and a half,” Newt suggested. “And I'll see you
get some supper before you start back. Cup of coffee, any-
way.”

The old man clucked to his horse and the animal roused
from its doze, ‘Won't hardly pay for my line,” he said
whimsically. “But'l ain't had a fare all day,” he repeated.
“You might as well get in,”

So Newt got in, stowing his bag under the rear seat, hifn-
self taking “py, the driver; ‘and the ancient horse
wearily plodded up the steep hill by, the post office, striking
along the Fraternity road. From the top of the hill Newt
saw the road unrolling across the fairly level high ground
before him. Behind, the blue waters of the bay were far
outspread, ending in the paler blue of the Castine shore. It

was late afternoon and the sun streamed in their faces

gloriously, while a little easterly wind from behind them
came like a cooling touch across their cheeks. The dust of a
passing automobile clouded around their heads, for a little
kept pace with their slow progress, and then, as though im-
patient, drifted ahead and left them plodding along behind.

a7

VEN though he had thus secured transportation at a
low rate, Newt was irked by the thought that with a
little luck he might have begged a ride of Andy Wattles, on
Bissell’s big truck. For a while he sat in silence, weighing
this small mischance, feeling behind it some suggestion of
an intangible malignity in nature which he at times thought

pursued him. Little things like that were forever happen-..

ing to him; inconsiderable incidents, which nevertheless
cost him money or disturbed his well-laid plans. Newt was
a man full of plans and projects; he had forever some fur-
tive enterprise afoot; his thoughts were habitually busy
with schemes and stratagems. The fact that few of them
eame to fruition did not ordinarily disturb him; but he had

at times, like another man, his hours of fretting at fate..

This was one of those hours. The quiet of the late after-

noon and the silence of the ancient driver of this vehicle in |

EVENING POST

October 17,1925

As He Turned Toward the House the Mili Caught

Hise Bye Once More; and Again He Had That

Curious Impression of a Conscious and Whimsicaily

Matignant Intelligence Looking Out at Him From
the Blank Windows

mood. His eyes fixed themselves upon the road in
front of him and he submitted his body with slack
muscles to the irregular and jolting progress of the
weak-springed carriage.

Now and then something along the road caught
his attention and held it for a space; and thus,
some two or three miles from East Harbor, his eye

was attracted by a patch of what had been wooded land,
cut off some years before, and now surrendering to the
springing young birch and poplar, while pine and hemlock
seedlings were appearing under the cover of these ephemeral
growths. The sight of this cut-over land wakened a gleam
of something like satisfaction in Newt’s eye. It brought
back vividly to his memory the occasion of his leaving
home. His father’s mother had owned that land. The old
woman was now, he thought with satisfaction, dead a
round half dozen years..But she had owned this.land, part
of her small inheritance, until Newt, then just. turned
twenty-one, heard in Hast Harbor one day that the Eas‘
Harbor Water Company wanted to buy it to protect a
portion of the watershed.

The knowledge had:presented to Newt an opportunity
which he was quick to seize. He had by small thriftinesses
saved a sum of a few hundred dollars; had saved, in fact,
almost every dollar that had ever come into his possession;
and he went to his grandmother and said he was willing to
take the land off her hands. This without the knowledge of
her son, his father. Newt told her the land was of little
value. The old woman had wearied of paying taxes on it,
and she had a good opinion of Newt, who had taken care to
cultivate her. She sold the land to him for six hundred
dollars.

When Newt’s father heard of this transaction he ex-
ploded into mild anger, insisting that the land was worth
more, But Mrs. Dunnack, who had been ’Tilda Mudie—
and the Mudies were notorious for thrift, even in a frugal
countryside—said approvingly that the transaction showed
that Newt was going to be a shrewd business man, and
Newt’s father permitted himself to be silenced. But when
later the water company sought to buy the land, and Newt
asked a price of a thousand dollars, the elder Dunnack was
irritated; and when at the condemnation proceedings,
Newt testified that the land was worth more than a thou-
sand, his father went into one of his rare hours of towering
wrath. The fact that the appraisers agreed with Newt, so
that the young man made a four-hundred-dollar profit on
the transaction, fed this anger; and the incident resulted
in an altercation between father and son, as a result of
which the elder Dunnack resorted, for the better expression
of his exasperation, to physicai violence. Overruling his

which he rode combined to produce in him a contemplative. wife, he banished. Newt; and Newt went away from home

not uncontentedly. He had prospered in Fraternity; he
saw no reason why he should not prosper equally in more
fruitful surroundings. The fact that the rupture with his
father proved permanent did not disturb his peace of mind.
Newt was a Mudie, he was fond of saying that he knew the
value of money, while Dunnack was notoriously a Dun-
nack and careless in matters financial. There had never
been any sympathy between the two.

Newt heard at irregular intervals from his mother, and
now and then he had a letter from his brother Sam. The
fact that these letters from his mother had become ir-
regular had not disturbed him; so long as the elder
Dunnack lived the young man saw no profit to himself in
reéntering the family circle. But now that Dunnack was
dead, there was the mill, a good property; and there was
the farm, worth something; and there was beyond any
doubt a fair amount of money put thriftily away. So he
had come home. Contempiation of these events from the
past comforted Newt this evening; his mood became more
expansive, and when about half the ride to Fraternity was
done he roused himself from his abstraction and directed
his attention to the oldster at his side. The old man, his
beard wagging with the listless movement of his rumi-
nating jaws, drove in silence, leaning forward in his seat,
now and then clucking weakly to the strolling horse, as
though he had lapsed into a hypnotic state and were un-
conscious of his passing surroundings.

Newt looked at him more attentively, and said at last,
remembering to raise his voice, “I been away for about ten
years. Don’t seem to rec’lect you around East Harbor.”

The old man nodded. ‘I moved to the city f’om Har-
mony "bout six years ago, when the old woman died.
Figured I could make a little driving folks around, and I
don’t need a pile.”

‘Live there alone, do you?” Newt asked.

The other shook his head. ‘Put up with my daughter,”
he explained. “‘She married Tom Dower, works down to
the coal wharf.”

“Looks to me you're old enough to take it easy,’”’ Newt

suggested.
The other displayed an aggressive independence,
straightening for a moment in his seat. “I pay board

regular,” he declared. ‘“‘Allus did say I wouldn’t be a
burden to nobody.”
“*T used to live out here in Fraternity,”” Newt explained.
“I’m Newt Dunnack. Guess you’ve heard the name.”
“Knew a man by that name, back in Harmony,” the
oldster replied indifferently. ‘‘Or else it was Hummock.

He related to you?”

“Dunnack,” Newt repeated good-naturedly. ‘Not
Hummock.” ;

“T don’t hear as good as I used to,”” Uncle Jasper con-
fessed. “‘ Don’t know anybody of that name though.”

“*Mudie’s mill, out above the village,”” Newt explained.
“My grandfather built that. Old Abel Mudie.”

“‘Never knowed him myself,” the driver confessed.
“But my brother did. I’ve heard him tell how Abel Mudie
was so close he grudged a cow her dry time.”

Newt chuckled. ‘Guess he was a good business man all
right,” he agreed without malice. “‘He died before I was
born. Yes, sir, he was the biggest man around here in his
day. I take after him, my ma always said.”

“Didn’t know him myself,’”’ the old man assented; “‘ but
I’ve heard tell of him.”

“Got a brother lives out here,” Newt continued. “But
he’s a farmer. Won't ever get anywhere. Sam Dunnack.”

“Oh?” The other looked at him curiously. “Gh, Sam
Dunnack. I didn’t get the name before. I know Sam. See
him drive his apples to town last fall.”

“Where'd he get him any apples?”” Newt demanded
jealously.

“He’s got an orchard, over this side the village,”” Uncle
Jasper explained. “‘ Doing pretty good with it, they say.”

Newt considered this. He remembered that his father
had had a young orchard, one of which he expected great
things. No doubt Sam now handled that property.
“Doing well with it, is he?”

“Everybody with an orchard had a good year last year,”
the old man replied, and launched into an explanation.
While he talked, Newt remained silent, busy with his own
thoughts. He had not taken this orchard into account in
his consideration of possible profits from his homecoming.
If the orchard were indeed a valuable property he was glad
he had returned.

‘Cider appies was a dollar ten,”’ the old man concluded.
“Delivered at the cars. Yes, I guess Sam done pretty good
with his orchard last fall.”

“Be a thin year this year then,’’ Newt suggested, find-
ing some satisfaction in the thought. Hard times were, he
knew, the wise man’s opportunity, and he was quite con-
scious of his own business wisdom.

They were within two or three miles of the village and
he knew the orchard would presently be visible, upon a
southward cant of land to the right of the road. By and
by he pointed it out and asked, ‘‘That Sam’s, ain’t it?”

“Dunno,” the old man said.

“T don’t know this country, to
speak of. It might be.”

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 5

He relapsed into passive silence, hunching forward over
his reins, while the cautious ald horse inched its way down
the long hill; and Newt became absorbed in his own
thoughts once more. The drive had been long, the sun was
low, the hills ahead of them were putting on their purple
garments against the night, and this deep and regal color
clothed them with a fine beauty and dignity as they stood
in silhouette against the splendid background of the
coloring sky.

A little way beyond the orchard his eye was drawn by a
farmhouse which stood by thé road. As they passed the
place a girl was at the iron pump in the yard, drawing
water, her body swaying gracefully as she manipulated the
long iron handle, one arm reaching down to steady the
bucket which depended from the spout. She looked up at
their passing, and Newt, who had an eye that way, touched
his hat in the embracing friendliness of country people and
warmed to her answering nod. When they were past the
place he asked the old man who she was; but the ancient of
days professed ignorance, wagging his stained old beard.

“Told you I didn’t know the folks out this way,"’ he
reminded Newt in mild impatience. ‘I don’t figure to
comé this far, but business ain’t been so good.”

They crossed the bridge over the brook that flowed out
of Maple Meadow, and climbed the last hill; and frorm its
crest Newt saw the clustering white houses of the village,
and the white church spire rising above the trees, and in
silhouette against the western light the high, bare rear end
of the structure which housed Will Bissell’s store. This was
Fraternity, and he had come home.

As they passed through the village the usual little group
of men watched them from the steps of the stere, but they
seemed not to recognize Newt, and he made no sign to
them. He pointed out to Uncle Jasper the turning that ied
to the old Mudie place, half a mile or so beyond the village;
and his eyes began to cast ahead along the dusty road for
sight of the remembered scenes of his boyhood

“*Be past dark ‘fore I git back to town," the old man said
complainingly; and Newt knew the other was thinking of
the promised supper, so he made no reply.

11

UDIE’S mill is on the river, half a mile or so beyond

the village. Above it on a little rising ground, sepa-

rated from the road by the mill yard, littered with bits of
(Continued on Page 138)

The Ancient Horse Wearily Plodded Up the Steep Hill by the Post Office, Striking Along the Fraternity Road

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

October 17,1925

RIDING THE CIRCLE ON HANG-
ING WOMAN: —By MaryRobertsRinehart

There was oneof

my chaps the

otherday, those
beloved shabby
old chaps of dingy
gray leather, with
scallops of nail
heads down the
wings and a large
stee! R at the lower
eorner, which I
wear only for pho-
tographs and long
horseback jour-
neys. And & new
‘dude’ man at
the corral asked
me if I got them
through a mail-
order house!

When I toid him
that they came
from the man in
Sheridan whose
business it is to
make them, he
seemed extremely
surprised. But it
came to me then,
almost as a blow,
that a good many
poopie believe that
the cowboy now
exists only in fic-
tion and the ro-

| WAS wearing

those horrified si-
lences, then people
ran. But he lay
still for a long
time, and when
they finally carried
him off we knew
that he had a
badly broken leg,
and would never
ride a bucking
horse again. He
was conscious,
when they put him
in acar to take him
to Sheridan, and
he waved an in-
domitable good-by
as he left. But
whenever I get a
letter from some-
body protesting
against the cruelty
to the horse in this
riding, I think
about Bruce. And
about Jack, too,
only that is much,
much worse.

And I wonder if
these people know
anything about
these outlaw horses
who will not be

Pnoro®

deos; that the
mail-order cow-
boy, a term jocu-
lar!y originated by the cowboy himself to refer to the dan-
dies of his profession, has been taken seriously by the East;
that it is convinced that all the old cow country now raises
is either wheat or dudes, that the beef animals of the coun-
try are collected for the packing houses by ones and twos
from the milk herds of smal! farmers, and that the former
cattle ranges are ali now cut up into suburban lots, neatly
fenced in and smelling strongly of cabbages after a rain.

The Same Old Cowboy Life

UT, aa it happens, the cowboy is still with us. Discour-

aged he may be, but not extinct. Still on circle he wakens
to the call of “ Roll out” at 3:30, sits up in his tarp bed,
puts on his hat and is dressed; still as nighthawk he drives
the bed wagon all day and
atands guard all night over
the “cavvy”; stilias night
guard he circles the beef
herds through the hours of
darkness, singing to the cat-
tle to guiet them; and still
he drives his nervous anuffy
animals incredible miles to
therailroad and points them
to the pens only to have, as
of yore, the switch engine
eome along, whistie, and
stampede them wildly to
the four corners of the
earth,

True, his herds are
emailer today. The old
days of bunches of 25,000
cattle and upward are prac-
tically over. But save in
this one particular, his life
and his methods are un-
changed. On the range he
makes and implicitly obeys
his own laws; his appar-
ently loose and haphazard
organization on the round-
up is actually compact and
fitted together like the
pieces of a scroll-saw puz-
sle; from the folding of the
blankets in his round-up
bed to the place for the

oe
GHT BY CHARLES J. BELOEN, PITONFORK, WYOMING

The Ways of the Weet are Still the Same.

nighthawk’s saddle, he follows certain arbitrary rules
based on experience and custom, and thus eliminates fric-
tion. He is, as always, his own doctor, surgeon, blacksmith,
cook, carpenter, hunter, wrangler, packer, herder and me-
chanic. He works in season eighteen hours a day and often
twenty. And he has about as much time to think how pic-
turesque he is as a one-armed man with the hives.

About two weeks ago, Domo’s nephews rode over from
Birney to ask me to go with them “on circle.” It was
during some riding, and just about that time Bruce’s horse
came out of the bucking chute with a roar, ‘‘ broke in two”
as they say out here, leaped, whirled, reared and finally
fell. When he got up again there was Bruce stretched out
on the ground and not moving.

Where the Whiteface Reigns Supreme. Driving Hereford Beef Cattie Inte the High Mountains

Par From the Ener

of ch

On the Few Remaining Big Ranches of the More Remote Range Country the Methods
of Handling Cattie are Much the Same as They Were Twenty Years Ago

broken, and re-
main poteatial
killers to the end.
And I wonder, too, if they think this sort of riding is all
show stuff. If they do, let them ride the circle with me; let
them see wicked old Alizan standing quiet, apparently
watching the cattle, and then watch him, as I did, suddenly
and without warning rear up straight in the air and fall
over backward! How Irving escaped that attempt at mur-
der, I donot know; for an attempt at murder it clearly was.

Bluebeard’s Return to the Wild

ND let them watch Burton and his buckskin; warily
approaching it, finally a foot in the stirrup and easing
himself into the saddle, and then, as regularly as he is
mounted, use every trick in its little buckskin brain; bucking,
rearing, stamping, squealing and bolting. It takes about ten
acres of ground for Burton
to mount that buckskin,
and he can have it for all of
me. It bucked into a mud-
hole once and I hoped it
would stick there and die,
but it only threw up its head
and knocked one of Bur-
ton’s nice front teeth back
against the roof of hismouth
and came out unharmed.
Let them, to come right
back home, watch my own
Bluebeard the day they put
a packsaddle on him. I
was standing by when I saw
this child of my heart rush
out of the corral, kick, buck,
roar and finally bolt to
parts unknown. The
thought that some fine day
he might mistake me for a
packsaddle was too much
for me, and I am now rid-
ing a tall bay named Prince.
Aside from the fact that I
should have a stepladder to
mount him, he seems safe
enough. But who can tell?
Some day a wasp may sting
him, or something may
touch his right ear—he is
mighty peculiar about his
right ear—and then “one

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

toot and I’ll be oot”’ as the
sexton said in church to the
old lady with the ear
trumpet.

But, as I was saying, the
Bones boys had asked me
to ride the circle with them.

Not that their name is
Bones at all. They have a
perfectly good Southern
name, but they began work-
ing with cattle outfits when
they were so small that they
had to chin themselves onto
their horses, and some wag
christened them Big and
Little Bones. So the Bones
brothers they remain today,
and their ranch over on
Hanging Woman Creek is
the Bones Brothers’ Ranch.

It is four years now since
they first came over here
from Hanging Woman. The
cattle business was at its
worst then, and so one eve-
ning they saddled up and
started forthisranch. They
rode eighty-five miles that

the way. So for fear the
horse would slip and throw
him and get away, Dad tied
a rope to the horn of his
saddle and then around his
waist. He was taking no
chances that night.

Yes, it is better now.
There are doctors at Sheri-
dan, only sixty-five miles
away, and a fair-to-middling
road, and the mail comes
three times a week by stage
to Birney, three miles from
the ranch. Only don't be
fooled by Birney; it has
three or four houses, a store,
a school and a church, but
there is nobody to serve the
church; its wheezy little old
parlor organ has iong been
silent, its pulpit empty. The
straggling street is just a
dusty road, down which
herds of cattle come to
drink long thirsty draughts
in the Tongue River.

s The Birney Store

night, each leading an extra
horse, and the next morning
they arrived at the corral.

A junior Rinehart was on duty there, his first day as
corral dog at a salary of thirty-five dollars a month, a
horse and saddle and his keep, and he rose from his bench
and greeted them with his best Harvard manner.

“* May I take your horses?” he said politely.

Only Sixty. Five Miles From the Rails

OTHING of the sort, they say, had ever happened to
them before. In a sort of daze they got down—they
were perhaps eighteen and twenty then—but they recov-
ered enough to state that they could unsaddle their own
animals and that they had come to work.
And work they did and ride too, until, a

PHOTO. COPYRIGHT BY CHARLES J. BELOEN, PITCHFORK, WYOMING

Tails to the Storm. Bringing Cattle in to Feed During a Bad Blizzard on the Range

and where the winter temperature sometimes falls to fifty
below zero. Back, in a word, to the old life and the old
game, only now with a handful of dudes in the summer to
tide over slim years, and with the railroad only sixty-five
miles away at Sheridan, instead of its former hundred to
Miles City.

Yes, the nearest town used to be Miles City. And when
Domo’s husband was kicked by a horse and fatally hurt,
Dad-—the boys’ father—rode that hundred miles in one
night to Miles City for a doctor. And got one, too, al-
though it was no use after all. The road was “slick” that
night, as they say out here, and there wasn’t a house along

OU see, Birney is reaily
the store, kept by the
boys’ Aunt Mamie and Uncle Taylor. It has everything,
has that store, even to an ancient and unused soda fountain
at the rear. Usually there is an Indian pony hitched outside
and a buck inside with long braids, buying. They can have
credit, too, if they are good Indians, up to ten dollers,
But:

“If they get to owing more than that,’’ says Uncle
Taylor, “they go somewhere else.”’

But where they are to go in this empty country is beyond
my comprehension.

The store is a sort of social center in Birney. On mai!
days in summer, Aunt Mamie makes a big freezer of ice
cream, and all sorts of people with soft
Southern voices drop in and sit about and

year or so ago, with the hope that cattle
would come into their own again, they went
back to Hanging Woman Creek, to Percy
and Daisy Bell, his little Southern wife, to
Uncle Taylor and Aunt Mamie, and to the
herd of cattle in the foothills under Peker
Jim Butte.

Back to Southern Montana, where the
open range is still the cow range, where some
of the long-horned survivors of the old
Texas and Mexican herds still roam the
hills, where the Indians still slip out from
the reservation at night and raid the cattle,

PHOTOS. COPYRIGHT BY CHARLES J. BELDEN, PITCHFORK, WYOMING

chat. Odd, how many Southerners one finds
in this part of the world. Aunt Mamie and
Uncle Taylor came out thirty-eight years
ago, bringing with them the old silver which
had been buried in a pond all through the
Civil War and was to be buried over and
over again against Indian raids. And the
great early herds driven up from Texas and
New Mexico brought with them Southern
cowboys who have lost nothing in the trans-
planting. Direct children of the South, hot-
tempered, soft-spoken and gallant, they still
use the Texas drawl or the comprehensive
(Continued on Page 66)

Ready for the Day's Work. An Early Morning Round:Up on the Rolling Ranges of the West During Calf: Branding Time.

Above —Mrs. Rinehart Wearing the Chaps Which Did Not Come From a Mail-Order House

8 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

GOLIATH

ILLUSTRATE DO

ar

October 17,1925

By F. BRITTEN AUSTIN

ANTOWN oTTo FISCHER

HE electric
desk lamp
tarew into

relief the virile in-
tellectual model-
ing of the admiral’s
head as he bent
over the outepread
chart, his gray eye
brows contracted
into an accentua-
tion of their tufted
bushinesa, his thin
lips compressed
into a line. He
straightened him-
self, glanced at his
chief of staff, who
sat tapping a pen-
cil point on a block
of signal forma,
spoke in a tone of
grim unemotional
satisfaction:

“ We're going to
make it very
neatly, I think.”

‘Just ebout
dawn, sir.” The
chief of staff's blue
eyes smiled at him.
“And we'll have
him nicely silhou-
etted against the
eastern horizon.
A very pretty bit
of work.”

The admiral
turned to take
from his flag com-
mander a signal
that had just come
by pneumatic tube
from the decoding
roora. It was an-
othet of the long
succession of wire-
leas messages re-
ceived every few
minutes from an-
other fleet a hun-
dred and fifty
miles away—a

leet of battie
cruisers, cruisers
and destroyers that had, just at thickening dusk, lifted the
entire enemy battie fleet above the horizon. It had turned
and fied for its life in the interchange of the first salvos,
waa racing now towards them in a spasmodic illumination
of weving searchlight beams and spitting gunfire ag it beat
off incessant torpedo attacks. And the enemy fitet ‘was
racing after thern, likewise blazing into sheaves and corus-
cations of fierce light as it also was harried by black. de-
stroyera foaming up out of the night in rear-guard action.

Here in this quiet chart room where the half dozen
officers of the admiral’s staff sat or stood in deferential
silence, and the only sound was the whir of an electric
fam and the occasional slash of a heavier sea than usual
against the ship. vibrating with the energy of her forced
drive through the night, that distant drama transiated it-
self into clusters of tiny flags grouped upon the outspread
chart. For three hours a tense excitement, professionally
restrained to & minimum of word and gesture, had gripped
every one of those officers. There had been intricate com-
putations of speeds and courses and ocean currents, a suc-
ceagion of curtly definite orders sent to be ciphered into the
eryptic symbols of the war code and transmitted by short-
range wireless. Those orders were now completed, and
those who had collabcrated in them glanced at one another
with an anticipatory thrill of magnificent event.

They had reason to believe that the presence in these
seas of their squadron of four immensely powerful, battle-
ships, together with its attendant aircraft carrier, scouting
light cruisers and destroyers, was utterly unsuspected by
the enemy. Their réle was one of strategic surprise, pre-
pared with the extreme of skill and secrecy. Their long-
range wireless was silent, answering not at all the incessant
communications from the battle-cruiser fleet, retiring on a
prearranged courses. Even the short-distance wireless be-
tween their own units had been employed with the utmost
brevity, would not again be used. And presently—less
than tiree hours ahead of them—just as the eastern sky

Like a Great Plight ef Sea Birds, They Grew Larger, R

The chief of staff
glanced up at the
admiral.

“Yes, it is cer-
tainly odd, don’t
you think, sir?”
he supplemented.
‘‘Aircraft were
supposed to be his
long suit. His car-
riers must be
somewhere — the
whole five of
them.”

The admiral as-
sured himself of
the even burning
of his cigar and
shrugged his
shoulders disdain-
fully as he sat
down on the edge
of the desk. His
intellectual effort
at an end, he was
not disinclined for
the condescension
of light conversa-
tion.

“They don’t
worry me,’’ he
said. “If his car-
riers are not with
him, they won’t
dare to come out
after we've dis-
posed of his bat-
tleships. And if
they are with him,
the whole five of
them won't pre-
vent my sending
his battleships to
the bottom. I
don’t say a battle-
ship at anchor
can’t be sunk by
abomb attack, but
it’s altogether a
different matter
to bomb success-
fully a squadron

led Th ‘

detached itself in its first low irradiation from the heaving
black sea, the enemy ships following the battle cruisers
would appear like dark dots upon its horizon band of
chrysolite green while they themselves, coming up. from
the southwestward, would ‘still be hidden. in:the murk ‘of
night. ‘They would effect. not merely a strategical, but ‘also
a tactical surprise. The enemy, h sly: to their
combined strength, would be an

indorsed the chief's succinct summary of the situation,
looked with almost affectionate admiration at the man
who had achieved it.

The admiral cogitated for a moment over the message
in his hand, then passed it without comment to his chief of
staff. The information it contained was already dis-
counted. Every conceivable eventuality had been pro-
vided for; they could proceed according to schedule. The
admiral lit himself a cigar in the satisfaction of it, smiled
sardonically at his chief of staff over the first long puffs of
blue-gray smoke.

“We oughtn’t to hear any more about played-out battle-
ships after this,” he said. ‘This’ll silence the cranks once
for all. - Couldn’t have been better arranged. All our bat-
tle cruisers can do is to run away from an enemy force that
includes two battleships. We come up with four battle-
ships and blot 'em off the map, and by this time tomorrow
every enemy ship that isn’t at the bottom will be skedad-
dling for their nearest fortified port. It’s as neat as a staff
demonstration.”

“Quite, sir,” agreed the pleasant-faced chief of staff,
with the proper appreciation of the wisdom of one’s hier-
archical superior. “There’s nothing can beat the battle-
ship—except, as you say, a superior ferce of battleships.”

“T can’t help wondering what’s happened to the enemy’s
aircraft, sir,” put in the flag commander deferentially.
“From what the battle cruisers say, it looks decidedly as if
his carriers weren't with him.”

ae in @ Succession of Squadrons, One Behind the Other

Aly eee ‘ways turn
bit of work—the admiral’s staff unanimously.but silently .

of battleships ma-
neuvering at high
speed in action,
particularly when they have such a powerful anti-aircraft
armament as ours. I hope they try it. It’d be another lit-
tle object lesson to the newspaper know-alls. After we
have sunk their battleships and battle cruisers, we sink
their carriérs-—and the poor birds won’t have a nest to fly
to.” He smiled with grim. pleasantness. ‘That's about
the size of‘it, isn’t it? These cheap-and-easy methods al-
tt cheap and nasty for the people who try ’em,
and if they'll only give us a chance we'll make the people
at home realize it.”

Another message cylinder fell with a plop into the wire
cage under the pneumatic tube. The flag commander re-
trieved it, took out the message form, glanced at it, handed
it to the admiral.

“More intercepted enemy wireless, sir,’’ he remarked.
“Can’t make head or tail of it. Pity we haven’t got their
code.”

The admiral tossed that undecipherable message on his
desk, shrugged his shoulders.

“Tt couldn’t tell us anything that matters,” he said.
“We've got him whatever he does.” He stood up from the
desk. “I’m going to turn in for a short spell. What’s the
time?”

“Nought-twenty, sir,’
“Sunrise is 3:47.”

“Call me at 2:30. Wireless silence till further orders.”

The admiral went to the door of the chart room. As he
opened it to the black night outside, the lights within were
automatically extinguished. They jumped into brilliance
again as the door closed behind him.

The chief of staff rose also,‘turned with his pleasant
smile to the flag commander. 4

“‘Let’s get a breath of fresh: air while things are quiet.
It’s like a Turkish bath in hefe.”’

The two officers went to the door, plunged the ch .rt
room once more into a sudden blot-out of all illumination,
emerged into a blast of damp warm wind that smote them

replied the flag commander.

THE

from a darkness which seemed physically dense in its com-
plete opacity. They stood for a moment bracing them-
selves instinctively to the wallowing lift and fall of the
ship, orienting themselves to near obstructions of solid
stee] known to be there only from long experience, groped
forward past just-escaped collision with a shadowy figure
standing immobile by a searchlight whose inward-burning
intensity of brilliance was completely occluded. Only as
they reached the rail of the signal platform whereon they
stood did their eyes obtain relief from this baffling sight-
lessness.

Down below them, and three hundred feet ahead, the
bows of the ship became faintly visible in recurrent smoth-
ers of dimly white foam that was bluishly phosphorescent
as it rushed along the deck, lifting sharply in the interval
before it dipped to another crash and temporary sub-
mergence. Against that glimmering turmoil of briefly
trapped cascading water, the four great sixteen-inch guns,
protruding their immense tubes in pairs from the forward
A and B turrets, one behind and above the other, were
every now and then just discernibly silhouetted, and in
the surrounding blackness the incessant flickering leap of
white-frothing waves rebuffed in tumult from the ship’s
flanks hinted at the massive widening of her bulk.

Above and behind them, the immense pyramidal mast
structure towered invisibly into a sky devoid of stars. The
ship seemed inclosed within velvet-black curtains, alone
upon the ocean. But the unshuttering of a lamp trained to
the specific quarter from that signal bridge would instantly
have elicited, precisely where expected, an answering
spark from the three consort battleships away to port, or,
more distant, from the advance screen of light cruisers and
destroyers similarly threshing in showers of spray through
the rayless night.

The two officers stared into that obscurity without the
interchange of a word. Fresh from that eager-brained
plotting of battle, this quiet normality of nocturnal prog-
ress was queerly incongruous to them, evoked an inde-
finable feeling of awe. Save for the thud and slash of the
sea, the quick whipping of a signal halyard, the eerie harp-
like note of steel stays thrumming in the wind, the silence
was absolute. Yet unconcerned though they of the ad-

miral’s staff were with the internal working of this individ-
ual ship, they knew well enough that action stations had

long ago been sounded. One clash on the gongs and in an
instant the ship would be vomiting flame and thunder.
The contrast of that concealed colossal potentiality of ear-
splitting, luridly flaring violence with this dark silence was
strangely impressive to the imagination. The flag com-
mander found himself caught by an involuntary visualiza-
tion of it, spoke to break the spell. He prided himself on
being utterly unromantic.

“It'll be hard luck if we miss ’em, sir,’’ he said.

“We shan’t miss em. Listen!’’ :

From far, far away came a muttering as of distant thun-
der. Both men strained their eyes into the blank darkness
to the northward. Not a flicker was visible. But the
sound was unmistakable. The battle-cruiser fleet was
still in action; therefore, the enemy fleet was still following
it, ignorantly pressing forward on that prearranged course
which would lead him to destruction. Probably the enemy
admiral, cautious before the haphazards of a night action,
was not trying to do more than maintain contact, confident
of annihilating his weaker adversary at the dawn. In the
meantime, both sides were utilizing the darkness for re-
ciprocal torpedo attacks that might luckily eliminate some
of the bigger ships before the final trial of strength. The
wireless messages from the battle cruisers had stated the
fact with curt explicitness. That distant muttering con-
tinued, broadened into a spasmodic tiny roll on a louder
wave of sound.

“‘In less than half an hour we ought to see their flashes
clearly,” remarked the chief of staff.

There was again a silence between them as both men
listened. The flag commander broke it, under the im-
pulse of a suddenly oceurring idea.

“I wonder if that enemy wireless was making a ren-
dezvous with his aircraft carriers for the morning, sir.
He'd naturally concentrate everything he’s got for a
knock-out blow at the battle ertisers. If for any reason
he’d sent them into his southern base and ordered ’em out
again at dusk last night, they’d just about cut across us
from the northwestward at dawn.”

“Quite likely,”’ agreed the chief of staff. ‘I hope they
do. We'll settle the whole thing in one go. The admiral’s
absolutely right. A modern well-protected battleship is a
Goliath that has nothing to fear from any puny little
Davids, whether they fly or dive —-—”

SATURDAY EVENING POST 9

“ Look, sir!"’ interrupted-the flag commander. “ Wasn't
that a flash? Yes, there’s another!”

Far, far away, low down at the indistinguishabie junc-
tion of black sky and equally black sea, there was a faint
brief flicker.

At that moment, in a chart room totally distinct from
that sacred to the admiral and his staff, the captain com-
manding the ship terminated a technical conference with
his chief subordinates, the engineer captain, the com-
mander, who was the executive officer of the ship, the
navigating officer, the gunnery officer, the torpedo officer,
and that officer responsible for all means of communication
who was succinctly known as Flags. Between them, they
represented every function of this mighty organism of stee!
that was rushing through the night, an organism, the arti-
ficial product of unnumbered and unknown scientists and
craftsmen, that had acquired an immense Frankenstein-
like personality of its own, but a personality they served
with an almost mystically sublimated affection, sinking,
with an ardent-loyalty, their separate individualities in her
transcendently greater being.

Divorced here from all remote domesticities, the ship
was the one all-dominating regent of their lives, a super-
human entity to whom they were enthusiastically dedicated,
body and soul. Grouped in that chart room, those sub-
ordinate officers, diversely characterized of visage from the
gray-headed, taciturn engineer captain to the ingenuously
boyish-looking gunnery officer, were alike in their deeply
exultant identification with her. They were alike proud in
her pride of colossal latent might, potent to annihilate even
beyond the horizon, of magnificent immunity from the
perils deadly to lesser craft, all but invulnerable as she was
in her external armor of ponderously thick steel, her intri-
cate subdivision within. Even the quiet-faced, efficient-~
eyed captain, for whose single volition to direct all her
infinite complexity of mechanism was brought to a focus
point, betrayed a note of pride in his voice as he spoke his
final word.

“That'll do then, gentlemen. You understand your or-
ders. And I know nothing can beat the ship in fair fight.”

The group of officers saluted, turned to disperse, emerged
from the chart house in a sudden blackness of the interior

(Continued on Page 151)

Suddenty, Without Warning, Independent of Their Volition, There Was a Stunning Crash, a Violent Shock, The Gune Had Fired

SATURDAY EVENING POST October 17, 1925

By Kenneth L.Roberts

DIcKErY

THE

10

MY STUPID DOGS

ILLUSTRATED ROBERT L.

my dogs have been subject to it. As far as I know,
none of them ever succeeded in catching a squirrel
orachipmunk; but whenever one of these creatures
chippered or chattered or whistled, or otherwise
expressed himself within hearing distance of my
dogs, they would invariably hasten to the spot
where they imagined the chippering or chattering
or whistling had originated, and snuffle around
hopefully for an hour or two atatime. They would
do this day after day and month after month and
year after year, without seeming to realize that their
chances of capturing the objects of their chase were
considerably slimmer than those of a gorilla to
become the governor of Tennessee.

The Chipmunk Chasers

NE of my dogs developed such eagerness to

get out and hunt noncatchable chipmunks that
he would break windows and leap through copper
screening whenever he heard one give tongue.

For a long time I thought that this peculiar trait
indicated that my dogs were weak in the head; but
eventually I discovered that a friend of mine owned
an unusually intelligent dog named Ranger who was
able to get boxes of cigarettes that his master had
left on the seat of his automobile, and make him-
self generally as useful as many of the present-day
servants who coarsely demand—and receive—
twelve and fifteen dollars a week, and that the dog
Ranger, when not engaged in running errands for
his master, would press his nose ardently against a
pile of lumber or a bit of wainscoting behind which
he suspected a mouse of lurking, and stubbornly
remain there for hours at a time.

My friend assured me that no mouse had ever emerged
from behind the lumber or the wainscoting during the
vigils of the dog Ranger, and that Ranger, so far as he
knew, had never been given cause to think that a mouse

_.would ever emerge; but that his chief joy in life appeared
to lie in this umrewarded and apparently hopeless en-
deavor.

It then occurred to me that a great many men who are
seemingly intelligent and useful members of society are

With a Few Deft Strokes of His Right Hind Leg,
Stosh a Little Brandy Into the Traveler's Mouth

And before I forget it, I would like to remark that the
days are about over when Rover can break into print by
seizing Genevieve by her long golden tresses or by a con-
veniently loose bit of her bathing suit and dragging her
ashore. Confront Rover with a drowning lady wearing
bobbed hair and a one-piece bathing suit, and the chances
are ten to one that the problem would give him hydropho-
bia. But it would probably have bothered even such men-

Kolar

HE dogs of literature, starting with those mentioned
Ts the cuneiform tablets of ancient Egypt and pro-
greasing to the sophisticated canines of McGuffey’s
Fifth Reader and even more pretentious modern publica-

tions, have apparently possessed intellecta that made them
seem like a blend of Marcus Aurelius, Sherlock Holmes
and the old cclored family retainer that steadfastly refused
to leave Miss Jinny and Marse Tom after Marse Tom had
lost his shirt, to say nothing of Miss Jinny's step-ins, bet-
ting on hoss races

For quick and accurate thinking, ability to be in the
right place at the right time, and general industry and
savoir-feire, these dogs are infinitely superior to the aver-
age prominent European or American politician. There
are the dogs of the monks of St. Bernard, for example.
They were wont, as is widely known, to go out on stormy
nights with little kegs of brandy attached to their collars
and hunt for unfortunate travelers who had bogged down
in the snow.

If a traveler, when discovered, was too chilled to go for-
war under his own steam, the dogs of the monks of St.
Bernard would pant heavily and warmly against his face,
chest and limbs until he was able to sit up and apply his
lips to the bunghole of the brandy keg.

If he was so far gone that he could not respond to this
canine heating aystem, then every good and intelligent St.
Bernard dog could be relied on—unless the tales of their
prowess have been misinterpreted and misunderstood—to
scratch out the bung of the brandy keg with a few deft
strokes of hie right hind leg, slosh a little brandy into the
traveler’s mouth, and reslosh at intervals until a faint
flutter of the traveler's eyelids or a violent hiccup showed
the astute animal that his patient would soon be able to
attend to his own drinking.

The Dogs of Literature

ITERATURE is full of Rovers, Neros, Tigers and Snaps
that have accomplished the romantic and the impos-
sible; that have saved little golden-haired Genevieve from
drowning by dragging her ashore by her luxuriant back
hair; that have sprung at the throat of the vile miscreant
who was planning to rob the beloved master of his moss-
agate cuff links; that have carried information concerning
injured friends or passers-by by loud whimperings or by
casting backward locks; that have bounded off to their
mistresses with messages tied to their collars, stating that
Jim is lying up on the mountain with a bullet through his
suspenders; that have been carried 2600 miles by train
and automobile, and then found their way home through a
heavy fog in seventy-two hours; that have awakened all
the occupants of a burning building and at the same time
called the fire department by barking like a fire alarm.

tal giants as Napoleon Bonaparte and Alexander the Great
if they had been equipped with four paws, instead of with
two hands and two feet; so that Rover's inability to meet
the situation should not count against him.

At any rate, the dogs of literature never fall down in a
pinch. When Jeremy Daingerfield, the handsome young
attorney, lies wounded by a moonshiner on Little Big-
Nose Creek, his faithful collie Gyp is not perplexed by the
situation. He doesn’t sit stupidly in front of him and
look at him anxiously, with his head cocked first on one
side and then on the other side, while Jeremy clearly
enunciates, “‘Go down to the drug store and get me a
bottle of aromatic spirits of ammonia.”” Immediately
on receipt of Jeremy’s in-
structions, the faithful collie
emits an intelligent bark, sets
off at once for the drug store
and comes back either with
the ammonia or with the
druggist.

That is one of the things
that make me so discon-
tented with my dogs. I am
passionately addicted to
dogs, and have had several!
of them during the past quar-
ter century; but I am,mor-
ally certain that if I had
fallen down and broken a leg
while far from the haunts of
men, and had urged any one
of my dogs, in clear urgent
tones, to go home and bring
help, he would either have
stared at me with a highly
intelligent look and done
nothing at all, or dashed
madly from tree to tree in the
belief that I wished him to
locate a red squirrel or a
chipmunk and frighten it into
hysterics.

This business of ceaselessly
chasing defenseless little an-
imals like squirrels, mice and
chipmunks is apparently a
vice that never enmeshes the
superintelligent dogs of liter-
ature in its toils; but all of

addicted to spending hour after hour and day after day
and week ufter week
on the golf links in
a vain attempt to
lower their golf
scores from 95 to 85.
None of them has

At That Moment Twenty-Eight Other Dogs Popped Out From

ever done it, and most of them will never do it; but
still they continue, figuratively speaking, to chase
chipmunks and keep their noses pressed against the
lumber pile.

The fact that man does certain things, however,
is no sign that dogs should be encouraged to do the
same things. A dog, for example, that lapped up
three or four drinks of homemade gin and then in-
dulged in a lot of loud and important—but slightly
addled—conversation dealing with his ability to get
the better of all the dogs of his acquaintance, would
probably be shot with tremendous enthusiasm by
his infuriated master. For that reason I shall never
feel ashamed of my hopeless effort te break 90; but
I shall always resent the stupidity of my dogs in
not remaining quietly by the fire when they hear a
chipmunk burst into song, instead of attempting to
tear down the side of the house and make a mag-
nificent but wholly unproductive gesture of pursuit
for the ten thousandth time.

Barking in Several Languages

T HAS been my observation that the dogs of literature
succeed in acquiring a complete knowledge of the spoken
word at a comparatively tender age. Some of them are
even abie to master two or three languages in a short time.

A distinguished American novelist, for example, once
wrote a book about an intelligent Irish terrier that became
highly proficient in the English language, and then picked
up such a commodious smattering of South Sea Island
talk that he was able
to communicate his
ideas to a blind South

THE SATURDAY -EVENING

Behind Houses and Trees and Hedges and Simultaneously Fell on Him

Sea Island chief by an intri-
cate combination of snuf-
fles, grumbles and growls.

My dogs, I regret to say, have never be-
come expert in their own or any other lan-
guage, and I have always been able to speak
with perfect freedom in their presence,
except on a very few subjects. One of my
dogs—the one that displayed such zeal in
the pursuit of chipmunks—was a candy ad-
dict; and the word “candy” could not be pronounced in
his presence without causing him to display a distressing
activity in his search for the confections which he—usu-
ally erroneously—thought were concealed somewhere in
the vicinity.

Another dog—the present recipient of my favors—has
a thorough knowledge of the meaning of the words
“something to eat,”” and shows his recognition of them by

laying his ears well back and racing feverishly
around the room in such a way as to disarrange
every rug in a highly annoying manner.

His understanding of the words “lie down,”
“sit up,” “get into the automobile,” “go home”
and a few other phrases, however, can never be
depended on. Sometimes he understands them
and behaves accordingly; but at other times
one can see that though he has heard them and
recognizes them as words, he cannot for the life
of him locate their meaning.

There are, of course, methods of jogging the
memory of my dog. If, for example, he is pon-
dering deeply and heavily over the meaning of

the words “lie down,” and is looking
wistfully and sheepishly at me as
though to say, “You know, there’s
something familiar about those words,
and I suppose I ought to know what
they mean, but I just can’t remem-
ber,” I find that his memory is jolted
into sudden activity if I make a slight
motion as though a brisk slap
were about to be administered
to his short ribs. At the very
beginning of the gesture his
mind clears as if by magic, and
he hastily lies down.

He is not one of the dogs,
however, that understand every
word you say and can do every-
thing but talk. A
great many of my
friends and ac-
quaintances. claim
to have dogs that
understand every
word yousay. One

a dissolute-looking
terrier of Scotch-
Levantine or
Scotch-Eskimo or
Scotch-African an-
cestry. This dog is
said to be unusu-
ally intelligent, and
conversations of a
strictly private na-
ture have to be
spelled out in his
presence. Yet I have
noticed that when
his owner is absent

of my friends has —

Instantly the Air is Shattered by a Wild Scream of Anguith

this peculiar-looking terrier is greatly given to protracted
spells of barking; and during the spells the neighbors walk
right up to the porch on which he is tied and look
directly into his wild-looking, unkempt face, and venom-
ously hiss or ejaculate, “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”
Although his owner continues to claim that this dog
understands every word that you say, he never seems able
to understand the words “shut up!”’ The neighbors can—
and frequently do—shut off his bark by throwing a pailful
of water on him, but they cannot quiet him in the least
by the most violent admonitions to shut up.

A Prodigy at Three Months

ONSEQUENTLY I have become somewhat skeptical

concerning the mental powers of the many dogs that
theoretically understand every word you say; but I am siso
free to admit that by comparison with the master minds
of dogdom with which the pages of the world’s best litera-
ture are plentifully speckled, all my dogs, including the
present incumbent, have been almost as slow on the up-
take as those prominent American society leaders who
thrill Palm Beach social circles each winter by throwing
large and expensive dinners for the small, adenoidish dogs
that prevail in the more rarefied portions of American
society.

This has been a source of great- disappointment te me,
especially in the case of the present incumbent, who is a
wire-haired fox terrier with a set of beautiful whiskers
faintly reminiscent of those that adorn the face of a recent
and very distinguished Secretary of State.

My first meeting with this dog, which took place in the
city of Munich, led me to believe that he would probably
be at least as intelligent as the dogs that achieve distinc-
tion by acting as walking barkeepers for foolish travelers
in the Swiss Alps. He had reached the advanced age of
three months at the time of our meeting, and was lying
on a small, round stomach, with his whiskers bristling
ferociously, barking furiously and recklessly at a moth.
His then mistress, disturbed by his barking, came out on
a balcony, looked at him sternly, and hurled the single
German expletive “Pfui!” in his general direction. The
dog immediately ceased his barking, rolled over on his back
and fell asleep. Fascinated at the thought that a three-
months-old dog had been able to absorb the inner meaning
of the mystic German word “ Pfui!’ I at once negotiated
for. him with ‘his master.

His master explained that he didn’t wish to sell hirn, as
he had a fine head and particularly fine ears and fine spots
all over him and beautiful whiskers—in short, a wunder-
schin, or wonder-beautiful, dog—and that he wished to
retain him for breeding purposes. If, however, he could
get a very large price for him, his determination might
collapse.

It further developed that his grandfather had been a
French messenger dog that had been stunned by shell fire
and picked up by a top sergeant in a Bavarian regiment
early in the war. The Bavarian sergeant named the dog
J'ai Trouvé, sent him back to Munich and had won more
than eighty first prizes with him when I was introduced
to his grandson.

(Continued on Page 101)

THE

Goodness G

In That Lovely Hush, She Said in a Loud Definite Voice,

T WOULD never in the world

[ie happened if Brother and I
had even dreamed that New

England could turn out like that.
Like Agnes, [ mean, But with all this
conversation about lovely faded gentlewomen and Puri-
taniam and elm trees and repressed desires and Browning
aovieties and the refining influence of beautiful old ma-
hogany and Sandwich glass, how in the world could we?

If it hadn't been for Great-Uncle William's legacy we
would have gone on forever expecting gentleness and a low
voice and a retiring disposition if we had wanted to, al-
though we didn’t without it, or wouldn't have. I mean we
didn't think of it even then until we heard that she shared
a third of the same estate. Then Brother had one of his
wonderful flashes of creative imagination. I mean it came
to him, just like that. Ultramoderns as we are, we had al-
ready decided that the time had come for us to sell the
New York shop and plan to marry money, for the sake of
each of our careers. We could get along without any
money, but some money wasn’t enough. With this we
could almost manage a season in Florida.

And Brother's thought was that Cousin Agnes was ex-
actly what we wanted for background. Besides, she could
pay a third of the expenses. We both felt that background
was so important. I mean we are both so subtle and so
sensitive to our environment, our creative temperaments
are so finely atrung that the least thing affects us. Of
course neither of us could dream of running the establish-
ment or directing servants or any sort of drudgery. It
would be a simply wonderful privilege for Cousin Agnes to
do that. It would take her away from that depressing
teaching and give her the joy of helping our careers as well
as the stimulus of the contact with Brother, It would
simply make her life over. And if she had been what we
felt we had every right to expect she was, it would have.
That is the terribly unsettling thing about it. Because
now it seems to me that as far as I am concerned, I mean

PERV S TRA TE O

SATURDAY EVENING

By Marjory Stoneman Douglas

GEaR,R GE

as far as I can think clearly about it yet, considering the
confusing things that have happened to me and the ex-
traordinary person Cousin Agnes turned out to be—well,
what I mean to say is, it seems to be just the other way
around.

But, of course, I never dreamed of that then. When her
letter came, with its neat handwriting, accepting our invi-
tation, everything seemed quite as it should be. We were
too busy disposing of the shop to think about Agnes. In
one way it was a sacrifice to give it up. It was so adorable,
with its three stone steps leading down to the vermilion
door and the low orange ceiling and the bright blue and
canary and scarlet of the painted brass boxes and the
cigarette holders and the Jugo-Slav posters, with the Bur-
mese brasses gleaming in the shadows and the fire in our
studio behind with a wisp of incense going and some won-
derful modernist poet or musician helping me make tea

Of course, as Brother always insists, being ultramodern
people, we are absolutely adaptable. We can keep a shop
in Greenwich Village and express ourselves in painted
lamp shades and tissue-paper dancing dolls with charm and
distinction, if we have to, or we can be the most complete
aristocrats. Really, I think aristocracy is like that. I
mean, Brother feels we have the right to demand the best
of everything if we can get it. That is why, when we re-
ceived our legacy money, he saw at once that it was our op-
portunity. The feeling we had about it was that it was
positively our duty to give to wealth the advantage of our
exquisite taste and sense of aristocracy. As Brother said,
for us to marry and form some simple uncultivated rich
people to the tone and smartness of our sophistication,
while allowing them to help with our careers, would be a
great benefit to soeiety.

POST

October 17,1925

racious, Agnes

©.

“‘“:

fe
&

“Can Anybody Here Mitk a Cow?"

Because really, Brother is marvel-
ously sophisticated, and, of course,
so am I. I think sophistication is
simply wonderful. Brother is ab-
solutely never shocked at anything,
and at the same time he is terribly fastidious. Women
rave about his pale skin and his silky Van Dyke beard and
his grace and his pale hands and his eyes, the color of milky
jade. They rave about the way he has sacrificed himself
for his art. I mean, he is really a sculptor, but he insists
that he will not degrade his art by working in anything but
marble, and, of course, we have never been able to afford
marble yet. But everyone says his tissue-paper dancing
dolls are too amusing.

Brother always reminds people of Lorenzo de Medici, an
aristocrat to his finger tips. You could just see him being
fabulously wealthy in some Florentine rose garden, and
patronizing scholars and artists, and collecting bronzes and
being cold to beautiful women. Brother always insists
that if he has the soul of a de Medici, I am like one of those
intellectual Renaissance girls, esthetic and wistful and
aloof, and very, very stimulating. I mean, I’m slight and
the color of warm ivory, and several painters have told me
that my mouth is redly, innocently sensuous, and my eyes
are a blue green with long black lashes and, of course, I’m
intensely high-strung. Everyone says I’m awfully psychic.
I feel things so terribly.

I have a wonderful feeling for design and I have done a
number of sonnets without the ordinary sonnet restric-
tions, which the editor of the Literary Era would like to
print if his readers were advanced enough, and I have a
marvelous feeling for interior decoration. Sometimes just
doing a lamp shade I am gripped with the most tremendous
sensations. My genius is really the sort of thing which
wealth could best bring out. Well, anyway, that is all why
we felt we must take the step we did.

The very first moment I saw Agnes I had a feeling. I am
like that. I can always tell, just by looking at a person.

wRoiGqgaf#gt

aaa"

THE

Brother and I were just having our tea by the firelight in
the studio, with everything packed, when someone came
through the shop, tramped across the floor, stooped under
the studio doorway and straightened up to look at us out of
the smoke in the ceiling. She was the tallest thing I ever
saw in my life, much taller than Brother, and yet thinner.
Heavens, she was thin! Her shoulders seemed unneces-
sarily square. She hed on a brown tweed suit and a plain
collar and tie, and a felt hat with a cock’s feather in it, and
she had bright black eyes and a pointed nose. When she
pointed her nose down at me and snapped her eyes, I found
myself staring at her with my mouth open, quivering like a
hypnotized rabbit. As soon as she took her eyes from me
to look at my brother, I thought she was only a tourist
from Boston come to look at the Village.

But then she looked back at me and said in a blunt con-
tralto, “Is this Vivian Page? How-de-do, Vivian. I’m
your Cousin Agnes. And who is this?”

Well, if brother and I hadn't been marvelously adapt-
able the shock would have shown. But Brother was in-
stantly suave and graceful with her so that presently she
was taking her tea quietly and he was explaining every-
thing to her. She pushed her hat to the back of her head
and had her tea and stared into the fire. When she pushed
off her hat completely her hair was black, pulled back from
her forehead and done in a bun in the back, with one white
lock running straight back in it. There was something
about her that made me forget my first feeling, and that
she was expected to be gentle and little and white-haired.
Brother rippled on brilliantly, as he does when he is pleased
with his audience, simply scintillating with sophisticated
wit. I saw her watching him with eyes that fairly glittered
and I began to feel that after all she couldn’t be better for
our purpose. The Back Bay of Boston was simply written
all over her. You just knew she always had seats at Sym-
phony and wore flat-heeled shoes and masticated her food,
and probably had on black wool jersey tights at that very
moment. And yet if—when she was sitting there quietly
drinking her tea—if I had only guessed! If I had dreamed!
But then, it’s too late now anyway—and then she was toc

quiet. Ewen when things began to happen on the train it
wasn’t anything you could exactly put your finger on.

I was awfully car-sick, as I always am. Quite like a
child. Unless someone reads out loud to me and waits on
me constantly I almost die. I could scream. I’m like that.
So high-strung. And, of course, Brother can’t be expected
to do anything, because unless he simply withdraws him-
self from contact with everyone, the common uncouth
people one has to meet on trains drive him simply frantic.
He is so fastidious and sensitive. So that you would have
thought that Agnes had enough to do without the curious
thing she did do. Really, I think I would have spoken to
her about making us conspicuous if I had not been so ill.

There was an old lady in our Pullman who had two dogs
in the baggage car, and it seemed to me that every moment
the train stopped anywhere Agnes was exercising those
dogs up and down the platform. The first time Brother
saw her he groaned and shut his eyes and I looked out, and
there was Agnes, as tall as a bean pole, with an insignificant
white poodle and a terrible little black-and-tan thing simply
winding themselves around her ankles. It was the most
undignified performance. It wasn’t at all as if the old lady
had been interesting or distinguished or the dogs pic-
turesque. Running around her like that, darting here and
there among the baggage and tripping people up, they
simply made Agnes look grotesque. I told Agnes when she
came in that I couldn’t imagine why she did it. She said
she liked animals, which seemed a curious reason. I mean,
of course, one likes animals. I think sometimes animals
are so interesting and psychic. But one doesn’t have to go
hunting up poodle dogs in baggage cars. I hear the bag-
gage people are quite nice to dogs nowadays.

Besides, I wanted Agnes to read to me. She read very
well. I suppose being a school-teacher regulated the voice.
I had her read to me Baudelaire’s The Flowers of Evil,
which is so wonderfully sophisticated, until I happened to
think it might shock her, and after all, one has to cultivate
one’s background. She was very quiet about it and only
said that Petronius had done it better, but, of course, I
knew she was shocked. I mean, really, you know, she

SATURDAY EVENING POST 13

should have been. So I asked her to read something she
liked. And can you imagine it? She insisted on reading
Horace in the original Latin. Of course I’ve heard of
Horace, but imagine! Brother said she was just trying to
impress us and he told her immediately that he didn’t un-
derstand a word of it and that Latin is very old-fashioned
anyway. But, really, after she had read a while I began to
like the sound of it. It put me so nicely to sleep.

It was her quietness, really, which kept us unsuspecting.
She never interrupted Brother when he felt like taiking.
She just sat and looked out the window with her big white
hands foided or read Latin books to herself. Brother was
quite irritated by it, because he said it made us conspicuous
and because he said a thing loses its effect if you do it too
much. But then and while we were getting settled in the
house she was perfectly docile, busy and helpful and effi-
cient. She could really do a lot of work and took directions
from Brother very well. I mean, in a way, she was atill be-
ing quite what we had expected she would be.

Even after we were settled in the house and getting to
know just the sort of people Brother and I cared to know, I
did not notice anything about her cut of the way except
that she had rather curious tastes in friends. Brother and
I had decided from the first to know just the worthwhile
type of people with money. What would be the use of
knowing anyone else? So many people of the adventurer
type come to places like Miami that one cannot be too
careful. There were all sorts of people we liked in New
York even, whom we decided to exclude in Florida. Peo-
ple would not have understood them. Brother said wisely
that the thing we must insist upon was that all our new
friends must be smart and rich and t}ioroughly established.
Of course I did not dream of emphasizing that point with
Agnes. I never gave it a thought when she went off and
made friends with the Latin teacher at the local high school,
because I didn’t really think it mattered who Agnes’
friends were. But when she began to meet a number of the
townspeople and actually did committee work with the io-
cal humane society, Brother told her quite emphatically

(Continued on Page 201)

There Was a Dead Quiet, Then a Man's Voice Cried Suddenty Over the Heads of the Crowd, ‘Take That Gun Away From Her"

14 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

THE FIRES OF

By Wythe Williams

T THIS moment
of writing, the
Moslem leader

October 17,1925

ISLAM

the Sabbath afternoon
murder of the Aus-
trian archduke rather
than the appearance

of the mountain tribe
of North Morocco,
known as the Riff,
whose complete name
is Sidi Mohammed
Abd el Krim ei Khat-
tab, is struggling val-
iantly with an army
comparatively insigni-
ficant in numbers, to
bring the day nearer
to hand when Islam
will dominate North-
ern Africa. Two mar-
shals of France, more
than twenty of her
major generals, and
nearly two hundred
thousand picked
troops have been en-
gaged ‘actively in sub-
jugating him if pos-
sible, or pacifying him
at almost any cost.
With such superior
forces against him,and
taking into account
his many victories
over the armies of
Spain, this “bandit,”
as he is cailed in
France, can scarcely be
considered a mere in-
cident in contempora-
neous history, for he
has been writing some
important chapters
ef it. The Riffian leader, his father and his brother
have all three the same name. To distinguish them,
the brother, who acts as general of the army, is called
Si Mohammed. The chieftain is just plain Abd-el-
Krim.

In Europe both Germany and Russia watch for their
chance of political and military renaissance. Italy is
feeund and elamorous; both France and England em-
barrassed, wary and uneasy; Spain almost completely
beneath consideration.

In Africa Abd-el-Krim has publicly proclaimed that
one Mosler is equal to three Christians and that one
Riffilan is equal to any ten Algerian, Tunisian or Sene-
gaiese soldiers that France has mustered against him.

The Rainy Season Coming

HE rainy season will soon begin, which will make

active warfare impossible in North Africa. Before
then undoubtedly the French official communiques
will announce either a smashing military achievement
or some sort of truce. Time now for the French means
everything, in the realization of either eventuality.
But time to the Arab means nothing. If it is the will
of Allah, Abd-el-Krim will accept either defeat or
truce, and wait for tomorrow or day after tomorrow.
With impassible visage, masking an enigmatic soul,
the salient characteristic of the Mosiem is patience. He
knows far better than the European how to wait. So
the French officers in Morocco, who do not bother
much about official communiques, realize that, for this
year at least, time may avail them little; that what-
ever their successes in the next few weeks, the great
Moroccan problem, instead of being solved, will have
been simply adjourned.

The Riff country, a bleak mountain range fringing the
Mediterranean from Tetuan to Melilla, has never been
conquered. The Rifflans—now called Berbers, to distin-
guish them from the Arabs of purer blood—are descend-
ants of an ancient tribe known as the Ruafi. According to
some hiutorians, the Ruefi first came to North Africa from
the borders of Russia. They were then a white race and
have turned brown through centuries under hot African
auns. Then they are supposed to have been Christians.
Islam is six centuries younger than Christienity. During
the backeliding era of the Dark Ages, many Christian
tribes in North Africa warred intermittently with idol
worshipers, unti! the prophet Mohammed united them
under his own star. But whatever the Riff may have been,
or wherever from, their occupation, after raising sufficient
to live-on frugally, has always been war. The Phoenicians
tried to conquer them. They failed. The Romans tried

Cotenet Chartes J vy © ding the American

Air Squadren in Morecee, With Commandant Happe,

the French Ace. Above—Native Troops of the French

Army in Ouergha Vatiey, Meroeceeo, Where They Have
Been Fighting

with the same lack of success. In the Moorish conquest of
Spain the Ruafi performed a leading and an ardent rdle.
The French army when this was written was not fighting
in the real Riff country. It was merely getting back its own,
that part of the French zone of the Protectorate that was
conquered by'the Riff last spring. The French commander
has been peering through his powerful field glasses at the
distant peaks, and communing with himself, “It is perhaps
easy for the great military power of France to drive’ this
bandit from our fertile plain. But when the eagle retires
to his crag—what then?”

The Moroccan question harassed Europe long before the
World War. Coupled with the hardy annual “‘ War Clouds”
that hovered over the Balkans, the “‘New Crisis in Mo-
roeco” was a headline in the world’s press. The Algeciras
Conference squelched temporarily German plans for Afri-
ean colonial expansion, but it only just so happened that

of the German gun-
boat Panther off the
French Moroccan
port, Agadir, actually
caused the struggle to
begin. Indeed, the
Agadir incident was a
far more logical reason
than the Balkan assas-
sination as an excuse
for the war drums to
roll.

Today, although the
German danger has
diminished, the Mo-
roccan question con-
tinues to present all
the necessary ele-
ments for an inter-
national imbroglio.
The balance of Euro-
pean power has
shifted, but Morocco
remains a danger to
European peace, al-
most as great as in the
years preceding 1914.

Spain’s Loss

PAIN’S history in
Morocco is that
of utter failure. It
ends now, practically,
with her disastrous
war against the Riff.
The Spanish death roll alone, in the African cam-
paigns of the past few years, has been over 60,000. She
has lost immense stores, and has paid millions of pese-
tas into the coffers of Abd-el-Krim, all of which has
enabled him to carry on with little buying and no bor-
rowing. Before the French were attacked, and toward
the end of her own campaigns, Spain bought her way out
of her African forts and blockhouses in order to retire
to the seaboard of her zone without further slaughter.
The usual price in the preliminary negotiations was
50,000 pesetas per blockhouse. But when the Spanish
soldiers got ready to march out with their arms
another Riff emissary would often appear to demand
another 50,000 pesetas. Otherwise they would march
out without arms. This dealing, however necessary, was
described in the Spanish press as “clever pclitical
maneuvers.”’ But it reduced Spain to a state where she
would have completely evacuated Africa, leaving be-
hind the remaining munitions and stores, had she been
permitted so to do by other European powers, and but
for the remnants of dignity to which she still proudly,
and often foolishly, clings.

Eye witnesses report that Spanish officers, when
their blockhouses were attacked, often declaimed
grandly that “soldiers of Spain must fight standing,”
even though they could then be mowed down mercilessly
by Riffian fire. A British official on a visit to Tangier
once tried tactfully to explain to a Spanish official the
British frontier methods in Australia and India. The
Spaniard replied that the British were a race of shop-
keepers and such methods were only to be expected, but
that the noble descendants of the grandees of Spain—
purest aristocracy on earth—had military traditions to
maintain. The Britisher, still smiling, remarked dryly
that he could only judge the methods by the results. To

this the Spaniard replied, ‘‘Oh, my dear sir, what can results
matter so long as the dignity of Spain is preserved?”
General Primo de Rivera, Marquis of Estrella and head
of the Spanish Directory, while not a great man—not a
Mussolini in any way—probably has more common sense
than the majority of his compatriots, and is a better gen-
eral than the others of his army. But his authority is in
delicate balance. Spain was neutral during the World
War. It was often such a curious neutrality that once
British guns at Gibraltar dropped shells into the city of
Algeciras as a hint that German submarines must leave.
Nevertheless, neutrality was beneficial and Spain waxed
comparatively rich. The African campaigns bled her riches
both in men and money. To the applause of the public
and in face of pig-headed army opposition, Primo de Rivera
was able to get Spain as far otit of Africa as she is—that
is, to the narrow edges of her former territory. But to get

SATURDAY EVENING POST

15

out entirely; to abandon officially the
Spanish Protectorate in Merocco,
might mean that both the Directory
and the King would fall. So for her ’
own, as well as for outside reasons,
Spain, now bolstered up by amilitary
convention with France, hangs on.

The key, however, to the Moroccan
situation lies in the Strait of Gibral-
tar, which likewise continues to be
the gateway between the Western
and Eastern seas, in peace as well as
in war. The Rock of Gibraltar, held
by Great Britain for centuries, is no
longer the impregnable fortress of
past days. It is now vulnerable
both from the sea and the air. It
comprises only two square miles.
There is no room for an air base of
its own, and to refortify the rock
with guns to equalize the long range
of a modern battle fleet is regarded
as practically impossible. Directly
across the Strait is another rock,
called Ceuta. The lessons of the
World War teach that this rock is a
far stronger natural position than
Gibraltar. It has a large hinter-
land that would permit better plac-
ing of modern guns as wel! as
providing an aviation center. But Ceuta, to both British
annoyance and content, belongs to Spain.

Tangier, the International Port

N TANGIER—facing the Atlantic side of the Strait, and,

largely through British insistence, rendered international,
and thus neutral and hopelessly second-rate—you hear all
sides of the matter, the pros and cons attaching to each
and every difficulty. Tangier is the shouting rather than
the whispering gallery for all that pertains to Morocco. A
city governed by many laws, the result is that almost no
laws are rigidly observed. Tangier has two British judges,
two Spanish judges, two French judges, a Belgian chief of
police, an American Minister who sits quite outside the
internationalization game, but who under our old treaty
with the Sultan of Morocco protects Americans and their
interests. In Tangier one thinks, says and does about as
one pleases. Cafés and gambling rooms are open all night.
Riff agents sit openly at sidewalk tables, sipping ab-
sinth—still the popular drink of North Africa. British
officers, across from ‘‘ Gib,” smile a bit superciliously at the
aspirations of the French to give their army a “‘little
exercise in Morocco.”” Idle British mining experts are
waiting the moment the war is over, to dash into the Riff,
to prospect iron and copper and other rumored potenti-
alities of the promised land. Solemn Spanish officers
en route from Al-
geciras to the

A Mountain Battery in Action

Arab guides, haggling noisily with leather and rug venders
from Marrakesh and Fez. The Café Central on the single
wide street, now called the Place d’Ajdir, because there
comes Haddou el Rifi, gigantic, good-looking personal
representative of Abd-el-Krim, to sip steaming coffee and
to meditate upon his next message to Prim» de Rivera, or
perhaps to the French. There also, daily from ten o'clock
until noon, comes Walter Harris, famous correspondent of
the London Times, sage of Morocco, who has lived there
forty years, speaks Arabic fluently, was once a prisoner
of the famous bandit chief, Raisuli. Harris lives in a
palace on the near-by hill, is gracious, entertaining, erudite
on all subjects, knows everyone, including Abd-el-Krim,
and ardently promotes the British hopes for peace. All
in all, a fat and merry company, forever interesting, set in a
medley of European and Oriental color, beside a sparkling
blue sea.

In Tangier, the British admit their aspirations and their
woes. Gibraltar they would now give back to Spain. In
talk, it is often as good as done, so complacent is the British
manner of rearranging theearth. Itis suggested, as an after-
thought, that, of course, that always-campaigning-against-
something-or-other newspaper, the London Daily Mail,
might arouse the nation to protest against this romantic
bit of Britain changing hands. Naturally, Spain would
be glad to have it back, not as a fortress—of course not—
but to have her territory again intact. The docks might

interfere commercially with those
at Cadiz, but no matter. Ceuta in
exchange would be the bargain.
Arises the specter of the Algeciras
; Conference, when Britain agreed
. not to thwart France in Morocco,
then openly checkmating Germany
and Italy. The latter now again
dreams of Mediterranean power and
African empire. France would pro-
test certainiy at Ceuta changing
hands, and her Latin sister, for once,
would be in political agreement.
But if Spain should clear out of
Africa in case she is not pushed
out? She might evacuate Ceuta,
which in her hands remains unfoerti-
fied and unmenacing. Who geta it
then? Better, perhaps, let Spain
keep it so long as possible, with the
Riff as a second buffer state against
France. Peace at almost any cost
is the best thing. Or even the Riff
on the coast, if peace fails. Any-
thing, anybody, rather than France.
Gibraltar may be something of a
myth nowadays, but it atill re-
mains a stronger fortress than any-
thing else about. Gibraltar would
be neutralized within six months,
once France got to the Strait. England is a nation
organized for trade and peace. France is a nation organ-
ized for war. Her engineers, at Ceuta, would probably
create one of the military marvels of all time.

The French Stand on the Riff

HY the recent French agreement with Spain? is the

English question. Why do marshals of France troubie
tc call at Algeciras and Tetuan, rather than await Spanish
grandees traveling to the torrid ovens of Rabat and Fez?
Do they expect real military cojperation from the beaten
Spanish army? What is it all about? Is it a bluff on the
part of France, this sudden warm friendship, to enter even-
tually the Spanish zone with troops, to be forced for “‘ strate-
gic reasons”’ in her operations against the Riff to reach the
sea?

The French argument comes not from Tangier—the
French delve but little into that field of fertile imagin-
ings; their argument comes from their battle front, also
from Paris, and is even more complicated.

First, if the Spanish army will fight, France asks nothing
better than that it do so. Thus the Riff wil! be hemmed in
on many sides, and France will not stand guard alone. On
the other hand, now having an active military convention
with Spain, France admits that in their mutual interests
she really ought to enter the Riff country, which is

entirely in the
Spanish zone,

front. Spanish sol-
diers on leave,
loafing in port
cafés, and rub-
bing shoulders
with their ene-
mies, the Riffians,
who go back
through the lines—
only twenty miles
distant—that
night, to resume
their work of pot-
shotting Span-
iards. Arabs spill-
ing from every-
where. Beggars,
cripples, blind —
blind from small-
pox and from the
savage cruelty of
the ex-sultan.
Holy men — those
determined faith-
ful who have made
the long trail to
Mecca, sitting
outside the
mosques. The
muezzins, with
slow, musical
voices proclaiming
the oneness of Al-
lah. Fluttering
lady tourists,
swaying on mules,
up and down nar-

France does not
mention either
Ceuta or the Medi-
terranean. In mat-
ters so delicate,
France prefers to
wait. Certainly
the French have
no desire to quar-
rel with England
over Gibraltar or
anything else—no
more desire than
has England <o
quarrel with
France. In the
role of Britain's
ally, and Spain's,
and earnest de-
fenders of civili-
zation, the French
might like to take
over Ceuta on any
legitimate excuse.

What concerns -
France far more is
to preserve. her
work of thirteen
years in Morocco,
upon which de-
pends the preser-
vation of her entire
colonial posses-
sions in North Af-
rica. If Morocco
goes, then Aige-
ria—a real colony,

(Continued on

row streets, with
English - speaking

The American Air Squadron in Moreece

Page 213)

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

irty Work in the Argonne

YS aa
wil” ~~

cw

Ne Bent Over and Started
te Write on the Shett

ae

2,

By William Hazlett Upson

TLLVUSTTRATEO ar

tion near the town of Septsarges. And early that morn-

ing me and Henry, who was privates in the battery,
woke up and found that a heavy rain had started during the
right. Our pup tent was gently but steadily leaking and
soaking us to the skin;

We sat up, which was possible because our pup tent
was pitched over a hole we had dug in the ground for pro-
tection from shell fragments. We put on our raincoats,
which was not any too, good but kept some of the water
out, and we looked out through the flaps of the tent. The
rain was coming down straight and steady out of a dull
cloudy sky. All around was the soggy tents of the can-
noneers. And in front of us were the four guns of the
battery—- 155 howitzers— pointed north, and covered over
with paulins which glistened in the wet. In front of the
guns was the Septsarges-Dannevoux road, fuil of ruts and
shell holes, and the ruts and shell holes full of rain water.
Across the road was an old German cemetery, and beyond
that, the wooded hills of the Bois de Septsarges, held by
our infantry front lines, And a mile or so farther on was
the German Army, sitting tight in a bunch of dugouts and
trenches which was called the Kriemhilde Stellung, part of
the Hindenburg Line

For two days--ever since we had brought the battery
into position—we had been sending over shell and the
Germans had been sending back shell. Some of them had
hit pretty close-—one right in front of the second gun-—but
nobedy had got hurt. The night before, we had fired until
one o'clock; and the last thing me and Henry had heard as
we went to sleep was the whistle of German 77’s going
by overhead, and the crash as they burst in the woods
behind us.

And this morning, besides the pattering of the rain, we
could hear the noise of a pretty brisk barrage that the
Germans were laying down Off to our right.

Henry said we better wait till the rain let up a bit before
we chased along to the kitchen for breakfast. So we looked
ever to the next tent, and there was Snipe Hennessey and

I: WAS the end of September. The battery was in posi-

ALBIN HENNING

his brother, Porky, looking out at the rain. They was
flapping their elbows up and down and <caying
“Quack, quack!” as loud as they could, and pretending they
was ducks and having the time of their lives. Then we seen
Porky whispering to Snipe, and Snipe picked up a big hunk
of mud and threw it over at us. It hit Henry in the neck
and splashed on me, and if anybody exéépt Snipe or Porky
had thrown it, we would have gone over and walked on
their face. But they ‘was sucha likable pair—especially
Porky—that we had to laugh in spite of ourselves.

Porky was just a kid, only eighteen years old, rather
short and stocky built, blue eyes, black hair and a real
smile. He was about the gentlest, nicest guy in the whole
battery. Not one of these softies that are nice because they
are scared to be anything else; Porky was gentle and nice
because he wanted to be, because he was a good-natured
Irishman and because he liked everybody in the battery
and everybody in the battery liked him.

Snipe was tall and thin, and when he was drunk he was
the funniest Irishman I ever seen. Young Porky thought
the world of him; the two of them was always together,
and always up to some foolishness.

We seen Porky laughing and whispering to his brother
Snipe, and Snipe grinned and picked up another hunk of
mud. And then the German barrage that had been falling
away off to our right shifted over, and with a long howi and
a bang! bang! bang! three shells came down right in the
battery position. Then three more, and after them still
others in a burst of rapid fire that lasted five minutes,
churning up the ground, throwing tons of mud around and
filling the air with black smoke and buzzing fragments.

Me and Henry flattened out in the bottom of our hole.
Two fragments zipped through the tent cloth, and one big
clod of dirt came sailing in the open tent flap and hit my leg.

The noise quit as suddenly as it had begun and left that
funny ringing and clanging noise that always comes inside
a feller’s head when his eardrums have been pretty near
busted by noise. And through this dizzy ringing I heard
far off a little voice calling, ‘First aid! First aid!’

October 17, 1925

I grabbed ahold of Henry and we listened. And again
we heard it, “First aid!’’ It sounded like Porky.

We stumbled out through the thin smoke that was hang-
ing around, and we walked around a big fresh shell hole in
the sod and went in the direction of the voice. Porky’s pup
tent was half torn to pieces, and inside was Snipe, lying
very still, and the back of his blouse all torn and red and
smeary where.a big shell fragment had got him. Porky was
opening his first-aid package and calling for help.

I ran to the battalion aid station, which was in a little
dugout at the edge of the woods, and the battalion doctor
came right over with two orderlies and a stretcher. By this
time Lieutenant Baird and a lot of the cannoneers had
gathered around. Henry and Porky were trying to tie up
the wound in Snipe’s back. The doctor knelt down, turned
Snipe over and took a look at him.

“‘No use,” he said. “‘He never knew what hit him.”
Then he listened to his heart and felt of his wrist and one
thing and another to make sure, and said again, “‘ No use.
Killed instantly.”

None of us knew just what to do, but the doctor was
quite brisk and businesslike.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.
here?”

“TI don’t know,” said Lieutenant Baird.

“You'd better,”’ said the doctor. ‘‘ Now that he’s dead,
the ambulance men won’t touch him. If you don’t bury
him, he'll just lie around till the grave-digging details get
here. That may be a week or two.”’

I looked at Porky to see what he thought about it and
he was just standing there, sort of dazed, not saying a word.

“ All right,” Lieutenant Baird spoke up. ‘‘ How many of
you men will volunteer to dig the grave?”

Me and Henry and Porky and three others stepped out,
and the lieutenant said that would be enough. The doctor
teok off one of Snipe’s identification tags and made some
notes in a little book he had, and then we wrapped Snipe

“Bury him

up in a blanket and laid him on the stretcher and covered
him with one of the gun paulins. It was raining slow and
steady and dismal.

We got picks and shovels from the limber. We marked
off a place six feet by two feet in the field beside the gun
position. And we cut the sod in little squares, whieh we
took out and piled carefully so we could put them back
later.

Underneath, the clay was wet and cold and pretty hard.
There was room for only one man to work at a time. One
of us would loosen the clay with a pick, then he would step
aside and another of us would shovel. That meant that
while one man was working, the five others would be just
standing around in the chilly rain. The waiting was worse
than the working.

After my first turn at digging I stood next to Henry, but
neither of us seemed to have much to say. I looked at
Porky and he still seemed to be sort of dazed. There was
a clattering noise over in the woods; breakfast was being
ladled out.

“Say,” I said, “I had forgotten all about breakfast.
Come on, Porky, let’s get some.”

“‘Breakfast?’’ said Porky, looking at me sort of stupid.

“Yes,” I said. “‘Come on. We can take turns eating,
and the digging can go on.”

“I don’t want any breakfast,” said Porky, and he turned
away.

I went over to the kitchen, and Henry followed along,
but we didn’t eat much. When we got back, the others
went over, all except Porky, who wouldn’t leave.

When the hole was about a foot deep, we came to very
dense hard clay that took lots of work with the pick.
Nobody talked much. Porky said nothing at all. He
took his turn at digging, and in between times stood
around with his hands in his pockets and a vacant look on
his face.

Digging a grave is a long hard job. A person who has
never tried it can have no idea of the amount of labor and
the length of time it takes to make a hole six feet long by
two feet wide by six feet deep.

While some of the other fellers were working, Henry
came and stood beside me and said, “Somehow this re-
minds me of back home in America once a long time ago
when I was a kid. I had a little dog called Snappy. He
was a little black dog with white feet, and I used to think
he was the finest mutt in the world. I used to brush him
off every day with a little brush.”

“Sometimes,”’ I said, ‘‘a feller will get awful fond of a
dog.”

“Yes,”’ said Henry, ‘and one day Snappy got run over
by a milk wagon. I dug a grave for him out in the back
yard, and it was a long, long job. I was such a little kid
that it was harder for me to dig that small grave than it is
for us to dig this large one. And I still remember how I cried
about that pup. I cried all the time I was digging the
grave, and half the night afterwards—couldn’t go to sleep.
But when I had finally cried myself out, I felt better.”

We both looked at Porky.

“Porky feels pretty bad,” I said. ‘He thought his
brother was just about the only man on earth.”

“If he could only ery a little,”’ said Henry, “it would
maybe be better for him.”

But Porky didn’t cry. When it was his turn to work, he
would shovel like mad, and in between times he would
stand around silently. And gradually his face began to
take on a hard, mean look.

The grave kept going down—two feet—three feet. The
rain slackened to a misty drizzle, but the clouds were as
low and dark as ever. The ground around the grave had
been tramped into a mess of soft sticky mud. All the time
we could hear the rumbling and booming of distant shell
fire, and once in a while a screech and a bang as a shell
came down closer. But nothing hit near enough to bother
us. From time to time big trucks would go roaring along
the road, and occasionally little groups of walking wounded
would pass by on their way to the rear.

Several men from the battery came lounging over to see
how we were getting along. There was a young boob from
Iowa that we called Sloppy. He watched us dig for a while
and then went over where Snipe was laid out on the

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 17

stretcher. He lifted the corner of the paulin that covered
Snipe arid looked underneath. Porky dropped his shovel.

“You get away from there!” he yelled. “Don't you
dare touch your dirty hands to my brother!" And he let
loose a string of profanity like nothing we had ever heard
out of Porky before. He was just crazy mad.

Sloppy backed off and got away as fast as he could, and
Porky gradually calmed down and went back to digging.

Then all of a sudden he said, “I’m sorry I bawled out
Sloppy like I did. He didn’t mean no harm. I guess I don’t
just know what I’m doing.”

He went over to the guns, looking for Sloppy, and I
heard afterward that he gave him a whole pack Of cigarettes
and apologized to him. Then he came back and started to
dig again.

At four feet we struck several big roots and it took a lot
of chopping to get through them. The first sergeant came
by, stopped and watched Porky wielding the ax fast and
furious on a root.

“Here, Porky,” he called to him, ‘come out of there and
get some rest. You got enough to worry you without kili-
ing yourself working that way.” Porky flared up again.

“You go to hell,” he said, “and leave me be! Can't I
help bury my own brother?”

The first sergeant looked surprised. Nobody had ever
tried such back talk on him before and got by with it. But
this seemed like a special case. :

“All right,” he said, kind of quiet. “If you want to
work, go ahead.”” And Porky kept on working and never
even answered him.

At five feet we struck a big rock. We had intended to go
six feet, but the rock was too big for us, so we let it go at
five.

Lieutenant Baird arrived, and behind him a little putty-
faced man that turned out to be the chaplain. The chap-
lain was busy and bustling.

“‘How about the personal effects of the deceased?” he
asked. “‘Any valuables in his pockets?”

Porky gave him a mean look.

(Continued on Page 117)

Jo the Chaptain Reached in His Pocket and Brought Out a Book and Read Out of It

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

WN YOUR OWN

By Frank Parker Stockbridge

HE housing
problem for
the city

October 17,1925

FLAT

as freely as he
pleases. He can
finish the interior
of the rooms in any

dweller presents
the aspects of a
genuine dilemma,
in that neither of
the two apparent
solutions is com-
pletely satisfac
tory in all cases
The choice be-
tween paying rent
for an apartment
and owning a
heme has been
complicated, since
the end of the war,
by the rise in rents
on the one hand
anid the increase in
land values and
taxes on the other.
About five years
ago city folk all
over the United
States began to
discover, however,
that the dilemma
had a third horn

This is the cobp-
erative apartment
house. Though its
most ardent ad-
vocatesa do not
contend that own-
ership of a codp-
erative apartment
offers the final and
perfect solution of
the housing prob-

way that strikes
hisfancy. Thereis
no landlord to veto
his desire to drive
nails into the plas-
ter, for it is his
own plaster.

Of equal impor-
tance, however, to
the buyer of a co-
operative apart-
ment is the
measure of control
it gives him over
his neighbors in
the same building.
He chooses his
company, with the
reasonable assur-
ance that nobody
whose manners
differ materially
from those of his
own family is go-
ing to live in such
close proximity to
him as to cause an-
noyance by reason
of a different code
of social ethics.

I have before me
a dozen advertise-
ments of codpera-
tive apartments
for sale in as many
sections of New
York. Each con-
tains some such

iem in every in- ev
stance, the spread

of the movement

has at least converted the dilemma intoatrilemma; and the
experience of those who have seized upon this third horn,
so far, seems to indicate that for certain classes of people it
provides as satisfactory a refuge as either of the other two.

Buying a Slice of Air

HE vogue of the cotperative apartment has spread

literally frora coast to coast. The National Association
of Real Estate Boards last year found it necessary to estab-
lish a co}perative section in response to a nation-wide
demand from its members for information and

wORRWOOD @ UNDERWOOD. PHOTO. FROM sannson HEIGHTS COOPERATIVE APA@TMENTS
“The Towers,"' the Coéperatively Owned Garden Apartments in a New York Suburb

its tentative stage in Philadelphia. In San Francisco the
coéperative apartment house has become decidedly pop-
ular. Broadly, the movement has taken root wherever
the supply of desirable home sites is limited.

What the buyer of a codperative apartment purchases is,
in the last analysis, a slice of air, situated a given number
of feet above the street level and a specific distance from
the building line, inclosed and equipped for habitation.
He owns this slice of air absolutely. He can partition it
off into as many or as few rooms as may suit his tastes
and needs, tear down those partitions, shift them about,

line as, ‘Social

and business ref-
erences required,”’ or ‘A list of owners who have already
bought will be furnished on request.”” The prospective
buyer can decide for himself whether he wants to associate
with the sort of persons who have already bought in; they,
in turn, can determine whether, after looking up his
references, they want him to live in the next apartment
or above or below them.

And the references are no mere matter of form. They
are followed up and run down, at least in the more expen-
sive coéperative developments, until every fact which
has a bearing on the desirability of the applicant as a
neighbor has been revealed. The efforts of obviously
unqualified families to buy into some of the more

comparative statistics relating to the financing,
building, sale and operation of such properties.

“‘Codperative apartment building organizations
are springing up all over the country,” said Albert
W. Swayne, of Chicago, chairman of that section,
at the real-estate dealers’ national convention.
“Curiously, the movement seems to have started
independently in each of a dozen cities, but almost
identical methods have been worked out in each of
these centers. It is as if the whole country had
suddenly realized that the codperative apartment
house offers ne solution to the problem of how to
build up the percentage of home owners in our
larger cities, which is gradually being reduced by
the replacement of individual homes by apartment
buildings and business blocks.”

It is not alone a large-city development, how-
ever. While New York, naturally, had more
codperative apartment houses than any other com-
munity, Champaign, [inois, with fewer than 20,000
popuiation, is housing a larger percentage of its.
people in the six such buildings that have been
erected there in the past three years. In Chicago
more than 206 apartment houses are codperatively
owned by their occupants. In St. Paul a million-
dollar codperative house was recently promoted.
There are codperative apartment houses in Detroit
and in Fligt. Michigen, in Atlanta, Norfolk,
Yonkers and St. Louis. In Long Beach, California,
they call them Own-Your-Owns and have built
more than twenty of them, three costing more
than $1,000,000 each. Atlantic City built one
last year. in Washington, D. C., there are more
than twenty. In Baltimore three experiments
have opened the door for further development of
the codperative apartment idea, which is also in

PHOTO

BY BROWN BROS.
One of the Many New York Coéperative Apartment Houses

exclusive apartment houses are sometimes humor-
ous, often almost pathetic.

Hand-Picked Neighbors

NTO one house of exclusive standards a very

rich business man decided he would like to buy.
There was but one unsold apartment left when
he approached the agent. The price was $80,-
000. He was told that he could not have it. Think-
ing that it was a matter of price, he raised his offer
to $130,000. The agent was obdurate. Six of the
rich man’s business acquaintances or associates
were among the earlier purchasers of slices of air in
this particular building. For reasons satisfactory
to themselves, none of them had ever had any
social relations with him. He went to each in turn,
asking them to use their influence to get him ad-
mitted. Each took refuge behind the fact that the
agent was the sole arbiter, and it fell to the lot of
the unfortunate real-estate operator to explain to
an infuriated multimillionaire that his wife’s public
manners were such that her presence in the house
would depreciate the value of the property!

This man and his family would not have been
happy in the enforced neighborliness of a codper-
ative apartment where the rest of the group have
a standard of manners and an outlook on life
differing materially from his own, nor would the
others. Butso widespread is the eodperative apart-
ment movement, in New York and elsewhere, that
it is possible for almost any family to find a codp-
erative apartment within its means and with the
assurance of congenial neighbors. If not found
ready to hand, it isa perfectly simple procedure, and

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

PHOTO. BY BROWN BROTHERS, h. ¥. C

one which has been
adopted scores of times
in Manhattan alone, for
the seeker to find
enough like-minded as-
sociates to buy an
apartment house or
have one built for their
own use. Any intelli-
gent real-estate dealer
can show how that is
done.

Permanency

EFINITE social
values then are part
of what the purchaser
of a codéperative apart-
ment buys, and these
social values have a def-
inite and readily trans-
mutable cash value.
And for tangible evi-
dence of his ownership,
the purchaser of a slice
of air gets a certificate
of stock in a corpora-
tion and a lease running
from that corporation
to himself.
The corporation has
no property or assets .
other than the apart- ;

of the particular block of stock issued to the origi-
nal lessee. Ownership of the stock, however, does
not per se carry the right to demand a lease, should
the original owner sell the stock. The new owner
must pass the same scrutiny as did the original buyer,
and if he does not qualify he may provide a tenant
who does, or the corporation will find one for him.
The original buyer binds himself by contract not
to transfer his lease or sublet his apartment with-
out the consent of the corporation, both as to the act
and the individuals. And he further binds himself to
pay, in monthly installments for the term of his lease,
whatever his share may be of the total cost of main-
taining and operating the house. That share is pro-
portioned to the whole just as his stockholdings are.

The codperative apartment owner’s annual charge
for maintenance and operation therefore—his rent—
bears a definite percentage relation to his stock
investment. Many codperative buildings operate at
a cost of from 8 to 10 per cent. Few run above 12
per cent. The range is between these percentages
whether the individual investment is as low as $2000
or as high as $150,000, which are the extremes between
which one can buy a codperative apartment in
New York City. The variation depends somewhat
upon the standards of management required by the

19

be torn down to make way for an apartment house, prob-
ably codperative. The Vanderbilts have sold two or three
of their Fifth Avenue mansions, and their kin and kind
are buying codperative apartments, where they ean retain
all that makes a Fifth Avenue address desirable at a tithe
of the expense of keeping up a town house.

An Apartment on the Avenue

MAN of quite moderate means, however, as such things
go in New York, can own asilice of air on Fifth Avenue.
Twenty-four thousand dollars will buy a space big encugh
to be properly termed a home in one apartment house,
which, by the way, was completely sold out, from the
plans, months before it was completed. That is not
the highest price, nor the lowest. The twelve-room-and-
five-baths apartments sold for from $34,000 to $75,000.
Ten-room spaces with four baths brought from $24,000 to
$50,000, and the nine-room apartments with three baths,
from $20,000 to $45,000. Since the fifth floor is more de-
sirable than the second, I have chosen as an illustration of
a $24,000 codperative apartment a nine-room suite on the
fifth floor, whence the tenant-owner can look out upon the
lakes and trees of Central Park’s square mile, rather thai.
a ten-room apartment lower down at the same figure, but
closer to the street noises and gasoline fumes.
For his $24,000 the
purchaser got, first, 240

ment building. It was
formed, usually, for the
sole purpose of owning
the building and often is limited in its charter to the own-
ership and operation of that particular piece of property.
If not so limited, it should be, in the view of many students
of the subject, if for no other reason than to curb possible
speculation with corporate funds when a surplus shall have
been accumulated. In Illinois, where the legislature re-
cently amended the ancient statute forbidding any corpo-
ration to own real estate beyond its own business buildings,
the law enforces the strict limitation just indicated.

The individual tenant-owner’s shares are proportioned
to the total share capital of the corporation in precisely the
relation which the rental value of his apartment bears to
the total rental value of the building. This computation is
readily made by experts. His lease runs to himself, his
heirs or assigns, for a term which, in New York, is usually
ninety-nine years, with the provision for an indefinite
number of renewals for the same term. In Washington,
the life of the corporation being limited to fifty years, a
shorter lease is necessary, but ways have been found to
insure perpetuity. In California, Illinois and elsewhere
the term of the lease is often stated as ‘“‘forever,” and some-
times as “until the end of the world.”

Lease and stock are loosely tied together. The particu-
lar slice of air of which the lease gives possession cannot
be rented to anybody except for the benefit of the owner

COPYRIGHT BY BROWN BROTHERS, ¥. ¥. C

Three Cotéperative Apartment Houses Located in New York City

tenant-owners and somewhat upon the percentage
to be set aside annually out of the tenant-owners’
payments for the amortization of the first mortgage,
and the size and interest rate of that mortgage. For
the capital stock seldom if ever represents the total
value of the land and building; merely the corpora-
tion’s equity, which may be anywhere from 40 to 60
per cent of the whole.

The amortization of the mortgage is one of the
guaranties of the tenant-owner that his investment
is not going to depreciate. Another is the interesting
fact, discovered simultaneously in several cities, that
a codperative apartment house desirably located
results in an increase in the tand value, not alone of
the ground on which the building itself stands, but
of the adjacent property. The fact of the building’s
existence makes the neighborhood at once desirable
to everyone whe would like to live on the same street
or in the same locality with families of the social grade
to which its tenant-owners conform.

The man of moderate means hasn’t the proverbial
Chinaman’s chance of owning a house on Fifth Ave-
nue. Vincent Astor sold his not long ago, announc-
ing that he could no longer afford to maintain it, with

the increase in land values and rising taxes. It is to

PROTEC

shares of stock, out of
a total of 14,770, in a
corporation which owns
a corner lot, facing
about 150 feet on Fifth
Avenue and running
back about 100 feet,
improved with a four-
teen-story fireproof
building. The land
cost, roughiy, about
seventy-five dollars a
square foot, The erec-
tion of this codperative
house and two or three
others near by, how-
ever, has already in-
creased the land value,
although the house is
not finished as this is
written. The building
ecst about seventy-five
cents a cubie foot.
Many good fireproof
houses are built in New
York today for as low
as sixty-five cents. This
one is of distinctly high
quality, calculated for
a life of 100 years or
more. Its field cost was
in the neighborhood of
(Continued en
Page 54)

>} WE: WE WA - 5

D. BY BROWN BROTHERS, W. ¥. «

20 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

October 17,1925

THE OLD FIGHTER’S CHILDREN

OON of a clear autumn day glowed
' N above the street, but the lamps of the
theater made evening as our throng
poured in and quietly found chairs. It wasa
most good-
humored ‘crowd,

TLELVUSTRATED ar

By Henry Milner Rideout

SOULEWN

HENRY J.

all Chinamen,
peace-loving scons
of Han or of T’ ong,
their wives, their
friends and their
children,who over
hung the b-leony
like a row of imp-
ish dolls or cher-
ubs goggling down
upon solemnity.

“ Fira’ tam, you
look-see.”” Yi Tao
bent across three
or four intervening
laps to murmur.
“Pirs’ tam, they
playing Can You
Fight? Wolly nice,
I t'ink se, you
likee,”’

Reyond the foot-
lighte gleamed a
rack of weapons,
their steel bur-
nished like silver,
their heads or hafta
gay with tassels
Battie-ax, pike,
sword, spear, par-
tisan, curved bill
that had the inner
edge of ite hook
sharpened keener
than a spoke-
shave, all stood
mated in paira
right and left,
ready for use. Two
Chinamen in loose
black garments
made their bow
and fell to work
slight, sinewy,
quick as a pair of
leopards They be-
gan gent.y enough
The Drunkard and
his Full Glass to
show the nine-and-
forty ways of fall-
ing, the Monkey
on @ Pole frolick-
ing through the
marvelea which
underlie quarterataff play, the Man with the Heart who
holds it shaped invisibly between his finger tips and by
graceful undulation of body and limb performs each
guard for each vital organ-—these pantomimes, and more,
Jau Kai Ming and his pupil enacted all in the way of
theory, with deliberate ease.

Then, swift and furious, came practice. They boxed with
hands and feet-—a lightning interchange of eightfold blows
that never came home, while bone and muscle, fist and
shoe meeting, smacked like hardwood. They wrestled, one
throwing another headlong, high off the floor, only to have
the other in going down trip him, upset him with a foot
lock tighter than tongs, magically neat, so that both fell,
somersaulted and rose in a bounce together. Choosing
weapons from the rack, they fought on—swords against
bare hands, two knives against bare hands, a long partisan
to a kind of triple flail, a ten-foot lance to the deadly
shining chain that can fly supple as a snake or rigid as a
bar. There was no pretense or trickery, no hitting to one
side, or mere acrobatics, or combat of the stage. Nothing
but the unearthly skill of master and man prevented blood-
shed again and again by a hairbreadth, while for ninety
minutes, gone like five, this pair of agile black demons con-
tended in a whirl of flashing steel.

When for the last time they toweled their heads, nodded
and smiled good afternoon, a great sigh rose from all who
had watched

“How you likee? Pooty nice, mos’ olo kine.” Yi-Tao
beamed with joy, hospitality and vicarious pride. “ You
sed, Gi Sdi, hart to do, begin welly yong, lartchee study
long tam. Yeah, I tink so, you likee him.”

Nothing But the Unearthly Skill of Master and Man Prevented Bloodshed Again and Again by a Hairbreadth

No man, having viewed sucha wonder; could fail to
praise. Argument, indeed, began, as we shuffled out
through an alley, whether one mode of fighting ought
rather to be called Lion Behind Gold Mountain than Two
Tigers Come to Szechuen. This fine point—fine, because
every mode bore a name of classic tradition—was com-
fortably waived by an old gentleman who turned his
benevolent face to remark that in English it all nowadays
would mean the same thing. As for that other conflict,
named Three Sworn Brethren, after the celebrated Red
Face, Black Face and White Face, the emperor's uncle,
whose long arms reached below his knees, why, there you
had history to guide you, seventeen hundred years or more.

“Yeah, shu,” agreed Tao. “ Pooty olo.”

By night in the kitchen therefore his talk ran upon this
ancient art of fighting, and modern masters. Does not he
who taught Jau Kai Ming still live, an honorable gentle-
man about seventy-five years of age, active as a youth?
Did not he, this grand old champion, Lao Chun Nam, not
so long ago slay Iron Head, a ferocious brawler who had no
right ever to have learned the mystery? It is well known.
The surly Iron Head picked a quarrel, ran at Mr. Lao to
deal him that butt over the heart which had never failed to
kill—and was met by a quiet reply swifter than the snap
of athumb. He.flew twenty feet backward, stone dead.

“He’s neck blokem,”’ said Tao...‘ He’s blains bus’ out.

Diasee way, so! One-two-th’ee, kick!. Callem Tigu Wash

Face.”

The trick is not imparted to children, fools or persons of
bad character. For reasons general, nothing personal, it
will be enough here to say that Tiger Wash Face is

executed in three counts, three nearly simul-
taneous motions of knee, hands and foot.
The brotherhood of the Shansi Heung Ma
used it, but only when they were in dire need.

“Who? ”

“Shansi Heung
Ma. You neffer
hear *hout?”’ cried
Tao, in surprise.
“Ho! I tole you.
Onetam,norf part,
one olo man he
welly good fight-
ing —— No, I fo’-
get. Stoly begin
diffun, mo far back
firs’, nodda way.
One man farmu he
all tam wuk outsi’
de field, nen one
day he woss diggee
hola, he catch one
piecee waze ——’”’

The farmer had
been digging with
a wooden hoe,
which could not
harm anything it
struck. Metal rang
hollow, earth
cracked away in
shards like pattern
mold from cast-
ing, and down the
hole poured sun-
light on a black pot
belly. The farmer
wiped his eyes.
After a breathing,
he took the dark
lump out carefully,
to scrub in the
nearest water. It
then showed not
black but smooth
black-green, a jar
of encrusted
bronze with two
ear-shaped han-
dies and two col-
ored zones of
cloisonné where
the enamel, faint
blue, white, sum-
mer leaf, iron red,
was pitted hereand
there as if worm-
eaten through
mystical design.

‘*Old.’’ The
farmer hid it be-
neath his coat on the ground and went back to digging. “A
wine jar of ceremony. Perhaps our great-great-grandfather,
when we had substance, poured libation to our family
in the temple. Who knows? Not I. Only the man who
buried it.”

Before bedtime he showed the jar to a few neighbors in
the village, elderly cousins whom he could trust.

“It is of high value,”’ they decided. “‘ You are lucky, Siu
Ching. But who will buy it? We are all poor hereabouts.
Of course, there is Wong Tai Kwong.”

“Then,” said the farmer, “‘to him I will go.”

The oldest cousin wagged his gray head in doubt.

“I would not if it were mine.”

Early next morning, however, Siu Ching wrapped his
jar in a mat and trudged off across country to the rich
man’s, a great house of which the old-rose tiles glimmered
under branches in a walled garden. Mr. Wong welcomed
him with sleek habitual courtesy. A powerful creature,
active in body, broad, sly and genial in face, Wong Tai
Kwong just then sat taking his ease, enjoying the coolness
of a room, or hall, where shadow fell pleasantly among rare
things. Wainscot and beam sheathing were of sandalwood.

“You found this, did you?” ~A hard light woke in the
merchant’s eyes, but swiftly died. Placing the jar on his
table, he viewed it with apathy.- “ Where?”

“In my own field, sir.” of

“How much are you asking?”

The farmer summoned all his courage.

“Three hundred dollars.”

Mr. Wong smiled, not because the jar might sell for ten
times as much, but because he had another plan.

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 21

“Half that, perhaps, would be nearer.”’ He yawned.
“T rather like it. Leave the thing here while I make up my
mind, won’t you, and come back tomorrow?”

This began well, thought the farmer, who returned to
his digging and moiled away like a new man. Here perhaps
came the start, the rebirth of the family fortune. Hope
kept him awake half that night and roused him cheerfully
next day to complete the bargain.

“Remember, take no browbeating!’’ cried his wife, a
game little woman who had struggled with him through
better and worse. ‘‘ You are too gentle, too good. Stand
by your price, don’t weaken; for it may mean that our son
will become a scholar and a famous man.”

They parted happily, scolding and laughing and nodding.
The day seemed of good omen, bright in their lives. An
hour later Siu Ching, warm with walking, entered the great
country house and made his bow.

“Ah, well,”’ sighed Mr. Wong, after exchange of for-
mality, ‘“‘what can I do for you?”

The table near him stood empty. Otherwise no more
change appeared in the long room than if he had sat there
unmoved since yesterday.

“About the jar, sir. You wish to buy?”

Wong Tai Kwong frowned as at a puzzle.

“What jar? You have brought something for sale?’’

It was the farmer’s turn to look puzzled.

“‘My old wine jar of sacrifice, which I hope has found
favor with one, sir, who knows the value of good work.”
Siu paused. This rich man, he considered, must have a
short memory. ‘According to your kind wish, I left it
here on the table. Overnight, at your leisure ——”’

Wong shook his massive head gravely.

“I don’t know what you mean,” said he.
nothing here.”

The farmer grew rigid, opened his mouth, remained for a
moment dumb, then cried aloud, “Why, here on this
table! Yesterday morn-
ing! I saw it! You saw

“You left

In and round this village we are a large old family, but how
poor! He is rich, the power of wealth surrounds him like a
fort. What can we do? Hush! If the twigs are brittle, a
thousand of them together do not make a log. Oh, peace,
woman! It is a great danger to talk so of Wong Tai
Kwong!”

At last, worn out, she surrendered.

“You are all alike. Men have no spirit.
farther? Why go on?”

Two months afterward the widow lay dying. Her son,
their only child, a brown work-hardened youth, took care
of her, though she refused all care. What they said to-
gether at the end is not known; but Siu Leong Yook, who
had always been as meek and boyish as his father, came
out from that room with a stern face and his mother’s look
in his eyes.

“Uncle,” said he, “I am going to kill him.”

The eldest cousin groaned.

Here came all this perilous chatter of words again, to
be silenced.

“Young child, we can do nothing for you.”

“Of course not. I do for myself.”

“Hear words of reason,” begged his uncle. “Can the
duck’s egg break the stone pillar? You are fifteen years
old. He’s a grown man, with a houseful more at his back
to help him. A devil, yes, who has murdered two. Will
you give him a third to eat up? Why, what know you
about fighting? To fight against odds and: win—or, no,
even to come out alive—a man must practice the art for
years, learn, perfect himself, train his body. Who in our
village can teach you, where we are all men of. peace? My
grandfather knew a master of the art, who had to begin
younger than you, by running and leaping in great iron
shoes, month after month, till he could jump like a fly,
jump from the ground to the roof and land without moving
a tile.”

Why drag

it!”

“Lower your voice,”
commanded the master of
the house. “‘Have you
been smoking opium?
What you may have seen
on my table your own
half-wits may know. Look
about you. This room is
glutted with curios. If
you left one, you will have
a receipt or a witness?”’

Mild though his wife
called him, the poor Ching
was neither fool nor cow-
ard. He looked right
through a genial smiling
mask, saw baseness hid-
den within, and attacked.

“You—you dishonor-
able person! Give me my
wine jar or my three hun-
dred dollars! Where is it?
You—you~—give it
back!”

The merchant turned
his head with a lazy air
and called aloud. Half
a dozen men came run-
ning in.

‘*Remove this
brawler,”’ said Wong Tai
Kwong. “‘ He grows noisy
and threatens. I believe
he came to rob my col-
lection.”

It is true the farmer
was being noisy, but not
for long. The menserv-
ants fell upon him, threw
him out-of-doors, and
there in sunlight fell upon
him again with hand, foot
and bamboo. He crawled
home on all-fours about
nightfall to his bed,
where, after a week of
clutching broken pieces of
life together with tor-
ment, he let them go in
a breath and died.

His wife went round
like a mad woman. She
drove the clan to their
wits’ end before they could
quiet her.

“True, we are many,”
argued the chief cousin,
whenever she would hear
him. “Yes, yes, I know.

————

a

A Young Girl in Apricot Colter Swayed and Spun, Flinging Overhead Twe Swords That Revolved

as Diasily But ae True as Wheels

The orphan heard him out, bowed gravely and turned
away.

“Good! Our cousin Lai is a blacksmith.”

Outside the village, beyond the dreary dun fielis, past
the grave mounds, above terraces of aged rock work that
climbed like an infinitely serpentine stairway, rose the
barren hilis. A road or ledge of rubble disappeared high
among them. Elsewhere along their crest nothing, not
even a ruinous temple, marked any place whither for any
reason man should go. Yet farmers who worked under the
morning star, who followed the end of daylight home,
began to see more than once by the early dusk or the late a
small human figure move against a background, far aloft,
of crag, ridge or bowlder. It might be a fox, they reported,
that had clawed up an old skull, and so, balancing a dead
man’s head upon his own while preying northerly toward
the Seven Stars, taken this form of mankind.

“A portent,”’ said the neighborhood, ‘“‘of change and
uneasiness.”’

Meantime Wong the merchant lived well, drove hard
bargains and flourished like a willow tree by a brook. Only
one thing annoyed him, which was that of late his trading
in furs had come to a stand. Over the hills, over the moun-
tains, and beyond even to the borders of wild Russia, he
went or had men go yearly to tre“ic with the barbarians.
This part of his many affairs had brought in profit. Now it
brought none, for thieves had sprung up, a tribe of bandits
lurking in the higher wilderness, who stopped carts, mur-
deréd carters and looted the silver going or the furs coming
down. So long as they despoiled his rivals it was fair and
well.

“But last time they carried off my silver,” complained
Wong. ‘‘Mine! These earth-born evil ones, they grow
continually worse.”

“Your foot wil] stamp them back into the ground,"’ de-
clared a sycophant. ‘‘ Yet why endanger your precious per-

. son? Why not hire fight-
ing men?”

“I have hired dozens.
They are no good.”

“* How if you applied to
the Shansi Heung Ma?
There is a great master of
the art, Chin Fong by
name, a champion.”

At the moment, Wong
Tai Kwong belittled this
wisdom; but afterward,
slyly adopting it as a por-
tion of his own, acted,
and sent a message to the
fighter. In those days not
long ago, before Western
firearms corrupted the
country, Shansi Heung
Ma, or Shang Ma—the
brotherhood of the horse
guards, the guild of the
pony tax that made a
road safe anywhere for
merchandise—waa a name
to conjure with, Ill-doers,
mountain thieves, out-
laws, highwaymen all
feared it. Mr. Wong,
therefore expecting a
brawny ruffian whiskered
like the tiger, almost
thought himself cheated
when one day there called
at his house an elderly
gentleman with perfect
manner, sedate garb and
a clever, candid, youthiu!
face. Except for good
humor and for bodily
movement rippling free as
liquid, tougher than silk,
the champion was quite
commonplace.

“You are Chin Fong?
The best, I believe, in
your profession?”

Smiling politely, Chin
Fong shook his head.

“T am of the mystery
But no, sir, there are three
better now, with eight,
nine, eleven perhaps com-
ing on as good.”

“Your modesty is
charming.”

“Not at all, sir. A
matter of fact. We keep
our score, and know when
a brother is passing his
prime or learning still.”
(Continued on Page i74)

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

WIND-BLOWN

Richard Ballantine received his brother’s letter. Re-
turning leisurely northward along the coast of Europe
in his schooner-yacht Wanderer, after a winter spent cruis-
ing about the Mediterranean, he had put into the Spanish
watering place for mail, and had found Charles’
letter, with iia extraordinary news, awaiting
him.

He was at first amused, then tremendously

curious. And becauee nothing was more im-
pertant to him than the satis-
faction of his own wonder about
life, he decided at once to give
up his plane for the summer and
gohome, The intervening ocean
was only a detail in his thought.
He had sailed too often into the
blue haze that hovers over the
horizon to believe, as !andsmen
believe, in its solemnity.

Having reached kis decision, 4
he delayed only long enough to
make a certain purchase—he
wasn’t long ashore, because he
knew just what he wanted and
where to go for it—and to send
a eable home. Within a few
hours after bis arrival in port
the wealthy young rover was
again at sea.

Some two weeks later, on a
gultry June afternoon, the Wan-
derer dropped anchor off Great
Cove, Long Island. Standing
on the after deck cf the yacht,
which lay motionless in the
leaden waters of the Sound, ,

Richard could see, beyond a

discreet guard of oaks, the vast

blue-gray roof of Ballanton, the

house in one of whose rooms he

had been born; in another of

which his father, the chief of all the Ballantines and the
greatest banker of his day, had died. Richard remembered
that death; remembered the financial tremors that had
accompanied it. and thinking at the same time of Charles,
suddenly laughed aloud. Good Lord, it was incredible—
that Charles, the reigning heir, high priest of the religion
cf family pride and present head of the Ballantine banking
dynasty, should be going to indulge in a romance, All
romance. from the point of view of the Ballantine saga,
was incredible. It was altogether too human.

Turning to his sailing master and close friend, who stood
near him at the schooner’s rail, Richard said, ‘‘ My brother
Charles is going to be married, Captain Mosby. I believe
I haven't told you.”

“No, sir.”

*Tt’s by way of being a family secret, | understand. But
I count you as one of the family.”

“Thank vou, Mr. Ballantine.”

“You know hew to keep a secret, which is more than I
can say for some members of the family proper. Aunt
Alexandra, for instance.”” Again Richard laughed, then
fell to musing. Captain Mosby waited, Finally the young
man said, “It seema that Charles is going to marry a
dancing girl.”

“A dancing girl,”’ repeated the other in a tone that
offered no comment on the information.

“So it seems. I daresay my mother will be upset.
What?’

“T only coughed, sir. But if you want my opinion, I'm
sure Mrs, Ballantine will manage the situation, whatever
it is,” :

“Yes, you're right about that. My mother isn’t to be
downed, but-—it’s extraordinary that Charles should be
going to do such a thing.”’ Richard’s blue eyes gleamed
with a humorous light. “Though as a matter of fact it’s
not Charles I'm thinking of.”

“*Naturaily not so much as your mother, sir.”

“No. Nor even of my mother, [’'m thinking of the girl.”

“The dancing girl?”

““M-m-—yes; I can’t imagine her in Ballanton. That
tomb—to hold a dancing girl! She'll die of it, Captain
Mosby.”

“I doubt that, sir.
once she geta her bearings.
chance to better herself -

“But is she bettering herself? That's what I’m curious
to know.”

So here, then, in a sentence, was the reason for their sud-
den flight homeward across the Atlantic. Captain Mosby
made note of his employer's curiosity and proceeded, with

[: WAS in San Sebastian, toward the end of May, that

She'll probably do very well in it,
It’s not every girl has such a

He Had Reached the
Bad of the Pergoia
When He Saw Standing in the Garden Beyond, Beside a Bush of Yetiow
Flowering Forsythia, @ Girl ina White Dress Without a Hat on Her Head

a privilege based on many other intimate conversations, to
argue his point.

“T should say she was doing a handsome thing for her-
self. A girl without a penny to her name, no doubt, to
marry your brother Charles!"

“You think her a scheming hussy?”

“That’s putting words in my mouth, sir. Words I'd
never say even if I thought them.”

“Well, she may be a scheming hussy for all I know. I’m
not necessarily hostile on that account. Living is schem-
ing. But she must be clever to have turned Charles’ head.
Or else she understands witchcraft, Captain Mosby.”

“That's hardly possible, sir, in this latitude.”

“No, of course not. But she must be—unusual.
unusual young woman.”

**You’ll find out about her soon enough now,’’ muttered
the captain.

“Yes. I suppose she'll be visiting at Great Cove over
the week-end. We're arriving on a Friday. That means
something unpleasant, doesn’t it?’’

“It means trouble,”’ answered the sailor dryly.

But Richard scarcely heard. He had fallen to musing
again. Charles, he thought, would be too infatuated with
the girl—her name was Regina Duval—to see clearly the
incongruity of her presence in the Ballantine saga. Yet
that incongruity existed; it was apparent to him even in
prospect. It was what gave spice to the whole affair.

A sharp roll of thunder in the west roused him to the
realization that a storm was making.

“Tf you're going ashore, sir” suggested the sailing
master.

“Yes. At once.”

Somehow he remembered the time a swallow had got
into the house. It was just before a storm, the servants

An

ITLLUSTRATED

October 17,1925

By DANA BURNET

BY R. mM. crossr

were hurrying to close the win-
dows, when suddenly the bird had
flown in. He could see so clearly
the frenzied bird shape tossed by
the wind into the strange dark
room.

“The launch is alongside, Mr.
Ballantine.”

“I’m ready,” said Richard,
rousing himself, and added as he
moved toward the gangway, “‘I’ll
sleep on board tonight. Send the
launch in for me at ten o’clock.”

Captain Mosby answered me-
chanically. He was aware, as he
watched the figure of his employer
descending the yacht’s ladder, of
a certain emotion—a profound ap-
proval tinged with apprehension.
Richard's strong, well-conditioned
body, his blond head that had al-
ways a curious infantile glamour,
his keen, hard youthfulness excited
in the older man an affection al-
most paternal.

“T’d like it better if we were
heading out to sea,”’ he muttered,
staring at the motor boat’s smooth
wake. He had an unreasonable
but persistent fear that Richard
some day would be drawn back
into the life that went on ashore
there, under the wide, somber roof
of Ballanton. That, to his notion,
would be a kind of defeat, a sin
against Nature. Richard, alone of
his tribe, had the gift of perfect
freedom. Let him guard it, then,
reflected the captain, as he would
guard his honor.

Landing at the Ballantine pier,
the young man climbed the stone

steps, unexpectedly familiar, that led up the
bank. These steps brought him to a vine-
darkened pergola through which a gravel
path wandered toward incidental gardens,
and beyond these the great house rose
brown and monstrous in its setting of oaks.
As Richard started along the path a crash
of thunder announced the approach of the
storm that had been threatening. He hur-
ried, and had reached the end of the pergola
when he saw standing in the garden be-
yond, beside a-bush of yellow flowering for-
sythia, a girl in a white dress without a hat
on her head.

She was looking directly at him; she must
have seen him coming up the path, yet his
first thought was that he had startled her. She seemed, in
spite of her apparent poise, subtly alarmed, frightened. It
was a puzzling impression. Because there was no sign of
fear in the intelligent dark eyes looking steadily into his.
It was rather an alertness, a readiness for flight, such as
one sees in the eyes of birds and animals—quick creatures
whose instinct is for wildness, for continual escape.

The wind blew against the bush, making the yellow
blossoms flutter. She too, opposing her slender body to the
gust, seemed to be urged to movement, to abandoned
flutterings. Her figure was molded and revealed as though
by the force that had created her—a force contemptuous
of draperies as it was resentful of her stillness.

“You're the sailor brother.”’

He nodded and went toward her, holding out his hand.
“No need to ask who you are.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, of course—you’re Regina ——

“Yes, I’m Regina.”

“You're going to marry my brother Charles.”

“Yes, but’’—her voice was curiously blurred by the
wind—‘“you mustn't say it like that. So casually! It’s a
tremendous thing, you know.”

“Tremendous, is it?’”’

“Oh, yes, I——"" Several words—a whole phrase—lost
in the gust; then her voice, light and brittle as a bell heard
at a distance: “I can’t get over the feeling—can’t believe
I’m not dreaming. I came out here to try to realize—to
pinch myself! Then I saw the yacht, and watched it. Fas-
cinating! I guessed it was you. They’d told me you
were coming. I wanted to see you.”

“My wanting to see you,” shouted back Richard, as a
bolt of lightning crackled, ‘‘has driven me across the
Atlantic.”

”

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

“Really? You've come all that way just to see what
strange creature ——”’

“Yes! And I’ve brought you a present. In my trunk
aboard the schooner. Better get back into the house now,”
he added with a glance into the west. “Be pouring rain in
a minute ——”’

“Were you prepared to dislike me?” she asked, making
a little movement toward him.

“No. Not at all! I thought possibly you understood
witchcraft. To have enchanted Charles, you know.”

“Oh! How funny! But—you'll be disappointed.”

“T don’t think so. What is it about first impres-
sions? All this has been most satisfying.”

“You were satisfying,” she said, ‘coming up the path
with that thundercloud over your shoulder. Charles said
you were a Viking.”

“Then Charles has changed. He never used to say
things like ——”’

“No. You're right. It was I who said it,”’ she confessed,
and laughed suddenly till she was breathless. ‘‘Oh, how
funny!”

“Here comes the deluge,” he called out. “‘Run!”

“Lord!” she said and, turning, ran fast along the garden
path, and he after her. As they reached the flagstone
terrace that made an entrance to the house, the rain fell
suddenly in torrents. He caught her hand and dragged her
up the steps, and so they came bursting into the high, dim
hall of Ballanton, and almost into the arms of its dowager
mistress who, with Aunt Alexandra a little behind her—
as always—stood erect and implacable in the open door-
way.

“Mother!” said her younger son, panting. ‘‘ Hello—I’ve
arrived.”

“Well, Richard. I must say this is characteristic of you.
Oh! You’re wet. And Regina’s drenched to the skin. You
must change at once, my dear—I told you it was foolish to
go out ——”

“Yes, Mrs. Ballantine.”

‘‘We met in the garden,” said Richard, “informally.”

“T should think so,”” commented Mrs. Ballantine, whose
voice, however modulated, had always a fine edge to it.

“It was foolish,” said Regina suddenly, and went with
a quick step up the broad, faintly shining stairs.

“Aunt Alex, darling!” cried Richard, kissing that soft
lady; but what he thought was, “ Regina’s terrified of my
mother.”

Aunt Alexandra said, “You look younger than ever,
Richard, I declare—and to think you’ve come all the way
across that ocean—and not even a hat on your head! And
in a rain storm! And running—with Regina! Don’t you
think she’s beautiful? Imagine meeting her in the garden!
And are you well, my dear boy? And ——”

“‘ Alexandra!”’ said her sister, and Aunt Alex lapsed at
once into obedient silence.

“Where’s Charles?” asked Richard. “‘Isn’t he here?”

“No. He telephoned to say he’d not be out till late this
afternoon. He’s working very hard these days,’ an-
nounced Mrs. Ballantine with a certain severity.

“Then there’s time for us to have a
talk,” said Richard. “I want to know
a lot ——”

**You’ll have to change your clothes,
my dear boy. You're dripping.”

“Oh, not as bad as that.

I'll change later. I sup-
pose I’ve some dinner
things upstairs ———’”’

“Your room is just as
you left it.”

“Come on then,” he
said. “Let’s gossip.”

‘*Gossip!’’ exclaimed
his mother, but it was she
who led the way into the
family living room off the
hall. ‘‘There are some
things you must know,
and I suppose the sooner
the better. Are you com-
ing, Alexandra?”

“TI thought I'd run up
and see whether that child
didn’t want some camphor
to rub on her chest,”’ mur-
mured Aunt Alex timidly.

‘*‘Nonsense. One
doesn’t rub one’s chest in
June.”

“No, Edith,”
the other.

But she went upstairs
all thesame. Her timidity
cloaked an amazing stub-
bornness, as Richard well
knew. He laughed as he
followed his mother into
the vast, high-paneled liv-
ing room.

agreed

“You’ re all just the same,”’ he said, “‘in spite of Charles’
romance.’

““Romance!”’ repeated his mother, and sat down in the
chair that always had been her throne. She was a tall,
lean woman, sharp featured, with indomitable blue eyes—
Richard had her eyes—and gray hair smartly waved and
drawn into a high knot at the back of her head.

“Romance!” she said, and then, “I think this is the
hardest thing I’ve ever had to face.”

“Tell me all about it. When and where did he meet
her?” asked Richard.

“Last winter. Ata charity bazaar. He was chairman
of the committee... I’ve always told him to avoid those
chairmanships. They're demoralizing—but Charles is so
public spirited. Well! She was to dance—and did dance,
quite charmingly, I must say: I was there and saw her.
She danced in a sort of costume ———”’

“Ah!” said Richard, ‘In a sort of costume.”

“Yes. She'd been sent by the theater where she was—
appearing ——”

“How appearing? Not in the chorus, dear mother!”

“No, thank Heaven! They won't have that to say
about her, though of course they'll say it just the same.
She had a leading part, I understand. A sort of special
dancing part ——

“Has she left the theater?”

“Oh, yes! I insisted on that, as soon as Charles told me
he’d decided to marry her. And so far we've managed to
keep it a secret. You understand, Richard, it’s to be
strictly a family secret for the present.”

“So Charles mentioned in his letter.
ticularly?”

“The reason’s apparent enough, even to— Regina.
Charles is very busy just now. Trying to arrange an
international loan, you know. It’s a tremendously im-
portant and delicate business. You wouldn't understand—
but there are several large banking groups—the Park,
Loman group, for instance—that must be brought around.
Unfortunately the newspapers have got hold if it, and
there’s been a good deal of publicity. Some Western sena-
tors have been talking in Washington and altogether it’s a
great burden on Charles. So naturally he doesn’t want to
have to face, at this time, the additional publicity that’s
bound to come with the announcement of his engagement.”

“‘He’s afraid it'll hurt him with the gang,” said Richard.

“The gang!"

“Well, the group then.

His banker friends.”

“So it would,” agreed
Mrs. Ballantine readily.
“They’re all highly re-
spected and respectable
men,” she added with
spirit. ‘‘ The first citizens
of the country. I’m sure
I don’t know why you
should refer to them as
the gang.”

But why, par-

23

“Oh,” said Richard, smiling, “it was only a manner of
speaking. I don’t mean to belittle them, indeed I don’t.
But of course Regina would be a long way beyond their
comprehension. That is, as Charles’ wife.”

His mother looked at him; and suddenly she exclaimed.
“T don’t understand it. I'simply don’t understand it! if
it had been you, with your undisciplined ways :——~

“Undisciplined!" said Richard, stung by the word. “Is
that fair? Just because I don’t choose to stay ashore and
sacrifice to the family idols —-—”’

‘*What a heathen notion! Oh, but we shan’t quarrel, my
dear boy. Not when you've just got home. By the way,
had you a nice voyage? And what decided you to give up
your summer cruise?”

“Another heathen notion,” answered Richard with a
grin. ‘“‘I wanted to see whether it was possible for a dan-
cing girl to breathe the air of Ballanton.”

“Ah, precisely,”’ remarked his mother. ‘Precisely what
I meant about you. You're impulsive beyond words. Once
you get an-idea into your head, you must act. You never
stop to deliberate ——”’

Richard thought ‘I'm in for a lecture!"" and was search-
ing for some means of escape when a manservant came into
the room and announced that Mr. Charles had telephoned
to say he would not be home for dinner. A matter of busi-
ness, it seemed, was detaining him in town.

“Ah!” said Mrs. Ballantine, and clicked her tongue.
Turning to Richard she said “The loan!" and then fell
silent, as though this portentous statement explained
everything.

Richard took advantage of his opportunity.

““Must go up and dress,” he muttered, and excusing
himself went quickly out of the room. All his life, he re-
membered, he had- been moved to flee from his mother’s
presence. It was a queer thing, and rather painful. He
felt suddenly depressed as he climbed the stairs.

In the upper hall he met Aunt Alexandra coming out of
the guest room, which was in the same wing as his own.
That sentimental lady was in one of her ecstatic moods.

“Oh, but she’s beautiful, that Regina! You should see
her, Richard. No, no, of course I don’t mean— though as
far as that goes, it seems almost a sin to hide anything so
lovely. Sovery lovely! Likeastatue— —quite perfect! Such
a sweet young body—and such legs ——

“Alexandra!” said Richard, mimicking his mother.

(Continued on Page 89)

“Reginal How Do You— Happen to be— Here?"

24

STARRING STUPE

is tough enough for a lad that’s expected, among a

gross of other cushy chores, to split seven lower berths
sixteen ways and to keep high-grass rookies from trying to
sleep in Mrs. Pullman’s clothes hammocks; so you can eas-
ily imagine the grand and glorious grief of toting a bevy
of bat swingers across the big drink.

If Old Man Cook had started his tours with the bunch
I had in tow, including Stupe Gilligan, he’d have gone
down in the histories, not as the inventor of international
rubbernecking, but as the bird that hatched the slogan,
Stay Home, Young Man, and Grow Up With the Mort-
gages. To look et Stupe was to think pleasantly of may-
hem; to hear him talk was to make merry over man-
slaughter. Even without Gilligan the junket wouldn’t
have been a bed of roses; with him it was a cradle of
thorns parked out in a rainstorm.

At that, though, I guess Bull Grogan thought he was
doing the sweet and pretty by me when he hung that
world trip around my neck with the side dish of Gilligan
tripe.

Jim,” remarks the manager of the Sox to me after
we'd staggered through the regular league schedule, “ be-
tween scouting and sitting in for me part of the season,
you've been hustling high and hefty this summer and I got
a reward for you.”

“Curse these constant raises!'’ I kids.
gave me ,

“Sey no more,” cuts in Bull. ‘‘ You're saved, but what
I'm going to hand you makes a boost in salary look like a
zero without any playmates from one to nine. You're
going around the world free, grateful and for nothing.”

“On and with who?” I inquires.

“You're taking « ball team with you,” explains Grogan,
“and you play in Honolulu, Sydney, Shanghai, end so
forth.”

“The whole Blue Sox layout going along?" I asks.

“No,” returns the chief. “It’s going to be called the
Blue Sox tour on account of our crowd framing the hike
and putting up the piasters, but we're getting some jour-
neymen from other teams in the league. You're the
manager.”

“How'd you happen to scratch yourself?"" I demands
suspiciously.

“I'm not well enough,” comes back Bull; “and, besides,
I took that gang to England a couple of years ago.”

“The first excuse,” saye I, “passes mustard, but the
second sounds kind of hollow and tinny when you throw it
on the counter. What was the matter with the tour that
you don’t want to make it again?”

“Nothing,” yelps Grogan. “Can't I slip you a gift
hearse without having you look for the sterling mark on
the handies? I figured you'd get a rest, see the world and
also carry & measage of good will ——”

A whosit?"’ | interrupts. “A message of whiches?”

“The boss,” returns Bull, “like you maybe knows, is a
bug on this hands-across-the-sea hurrah and the rest of the

Pi IST piloting a ball team on an overnight rattler jump

“Will ncbody

“Trey Don't Mardty Give You a Thing
te Bat on Thies Raft,"* He Kicks

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

you-scratch-me-and-I'll-seratch-you stuff that’s expected
to make a tramp out of war and peace a habit instead of a
holiday. He’s got the idea that sending ball teams to other
countries is a grand move toward making the lion and the
lamb lie down together.”

“They do now,” I wheezes, “‘ but the lion’s the only one
that gets up. Don’t we play any baseball?”

“Sure,” returns Grogan. ‘‘That’s all you dodo. They’ve
got some good nines in a few of those foreign places, espe-
cially Japan, and where they haven’t any you can use your
tossers in an exhibition game. You haven't any objections
to leaving behind a good impression of America on the
side, have you?”

“No,” I returns, “but I can picture the cuddly notion
of the U.S. A. a crowd of banzais are going to get watching
Fathead McCoogan or Spikes Miller heaving a bat at the
ump or telling him that his mother’s a lop-eyed crook.”

“In the first place,”’ says Bull, “ Miller and McCoogan
aren't going along. We've picked a decent bunch and———”’

“Who's in the line-up?” I cuts in. Grogan rattles off a
list of names, about twenty of 'em, including six of the Sox.

“And,” he finishes in a kind
of mumble, “Gilligan, of the
Lizards.”

““Stupe Gilligan?” I gasps.

“Yes,” returns the chief,
shamefaced. “I know he’s
stuffed with excelsior between
the ears, but he got to the boss
some way and hooked himself
to the kite.”

“Well,” I snaps, “you'd
better drop him if you want me
to fiy it. I’m willing to be re-
sponsible for the table manners
of a backward anteater, or even
sleep in the scuppers with a
brace of dogs featuring rabies, but I draw
the line on Stupe. The trip’s all wet if he
goes. That puncture’d be telling the captain
how to run the ship and the McAdoo how
to rule Japan five minutes after he got a squint
at 'em.”’

I speaks with feeling and experience about
Gilligan. That calliope-mouthed minus was
with the Blue Sox one season when I was
pinch-hitting for Grogan, and how I suf-
fered! Before the summer was over I was
being mistaken for my grandfather and get-
ting circulars from every sanitarium in the
country.

Gilligan's front name was Joe, but at least eighty-
seven people had independently christened him
Stupid, a good part of them just from looking at
his picture. There was nothing he knew anything
about, but there wasn’t a subject from the birthrate
of triplets in Hohokus, New Jersey, to the output of

left-handed widgets in Siloam Springs, Ar-
kansas, that he couldn’t put up an argument

over. He was just as good on one side of

a debate as the other, not having the usual handi-
cap of knowing something even distantly related
by marriage to the discussion.

On account of the fact that his mind
never wandered, having no place to go,
Stupe was a pretty fair hitter, and
that’s why he weighted down the Sox
pay roll until I took Bull by the horns
and put it to him cold that he’d either
have to trade Gilligan or lose my trade.
Grogan’s judgment was good and he
picked me. Sluggers are common, but
scouts are born, not made—can you
imagine a guy making himself one of
those things?

“Chief,”’ says I after a spell of glum
silence, “ you’d better get another nurse

. to take your tots touring.”

“Come on,” urges Grogan, “smile
for mamma and show your little toof-
ums. The rest of the gang that’s
going along’s all right, isn’t it?”

“Fair,” I admits.

“Well,’’ goes on Bull,‘ you can stand
for one quince among two dozen eat-
ing apples, can’t you? It'll be a trip
you'll remember, Jim.”

“I got a hunch it will,” says I.
“I’m looking back on it even before I
start.”

“Just think,” continues Grogan.
“You'll see the beautiful bathing gals

October 17,1925

By Sam Hellman

ILLUSTRATED ar Towr SARG

on the beach at Waikiki in their zero-piece bathing suits,
you'll ride in those Japanese gin rickeys with a snappy
geisha gimme, you'll -——”’

“Tell it to the Marines!’ I barks.
list.”

‘I’m too old to en-

uw

ILLIGAN doesn’t join the party till we gets to San
Francisco, so there were five or six days of the world
tour that I can’t blame for my white hair and stoop shoul-
ders. But we’re no sooner through the Golden Gate than
Stupe begins stirring his stuff and spilling it all over me.
“You got to change that room of mine,” says he to me.
‘*What’s the matter?” I inquires, sarcastic. ‘“‘ The rivet-
ing machine on the building next door keeping you awake?”’
“Building?” puzzles Gilligan.
“Yes,” I tells him, short. “‘ The annex they’re putting on
the Bon Ton Store at Sapulpa, Oklahoma.”
“I don’t know nothing about that,” says Stupe, “but
Harris’ room is bigger than mine
and Gilroy's is right on the main
floor.”’

He ® Se

24 +
so
» Sol,

““Why shouldn’t they be?’’ I snaps.

“Didn’t I bat .267 against Harris’ .259 last season?”
howls Gilligan. “‘ Didn't I outfield Gilroy by .086?”

“You maybe did,’”’ I returns, ‘‘ but we didn’t lay out the
flops on this scow according to the box-score returns. It
was done alphabetical.”

“But G is ahead of H, isn’t it?’’ demands Stupe.

“How much,” I growls, reaching for my pocket, “are
you willing to bet on that?”’

“Nothing,” says Gilligan after some of his substitute
for thought, “It’s a long time since I left school and ——

“Thirty-one years is a longish stretch,” I agrees.

“What are you talking about?” scowls Stupe.
not thirty yet.”

“T know,” says I, “but did you happen to notice how
much closer you were to the starboard scuppers than
Harris or Gilroy?”

“No,” admits Gilligan. “‘Is that supposed to bea treat?”

“A treat!” I gasps. ‘‘It’s the ox’s spats when it comes to
accommodations. I don’t mind slipping you the info that
I had to pay extra to land 'em for you. They wanted to
give that stateroom to the King of Australia’s master of
the hunt, but when I told ’em who I wanted it for, well,
you should have seen the purser turn pale.

*** Master of the hunt, eh?’ says I. ‘The baby I’m talk-
ing for is master of the bunt.’”’

“*T’ll say I am,” protests Stupe.

“T understand,” I goes on, “that the royal family is still
trying to pull that cabin out from under you. It’s sure
fierce the way they’ll fight to get near the starboard scup-

“lm

rs.
“What's so good about them?” inquires Gilligan.

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

“You'll see for yourself,” I whispers, “when you get
down to where it’s hot and the scuppers get filled up with
bilge water. Harris’d trade you in a minute if you’d rather
have his quarters.”’

“Not me he won’t trade!” yelps Stupe. “I wouldn’t
have that dog pen of his on a bet; nor Gilroy’s, I’d like to
see those bozos try to get me away from those scuppers!”’

On account of Gilligan’s conversation or the up-she-
goes-down-she-goes motion of the boat, I suddenly gets a
dizzy feeling in the tummy and wabbles away from Stupe.

“Going to eat?” asks
the super-simp.

“On the contrary,” I
says, feeble, and makes
a wild grab for the dan-
cing rail.

Gilligan Lashes Out With His Gioved
Mitt and Catches the Jap Flush on
the Chin

“Sick?” inquires Gilligan, following me.

“No,” I mumbles. “ There’s a fish hereabouts
that I used to know and I promised to look him
up the next time I was around this way.”

“Tf the captain knew how to run this tug,”
says Stupe, “it wouldn’t rock like this. I’ll go
up in the balcony and give him a talking to.”

For the next three or four days I’m a horse de combat,
sticking closer to my bunk than fleas to a pup, excepting
eight or ten times a day when the subject of food comes up.

“‘Can’t you do anything for me?” I asks the ship’s doc,
who drifts in for a look.

“Not a thing,” smiles he. “It’s got to take its course.”

“Got any arsenic?’’ I moans.

“What do you want arsenic for?”’ grins the sawbones.

“Well,” I tells him, cunning and subtle, “the bugs are
raising heck with my rosebushes and I want to fix up a
spray for them.”

“I see,” remarks the pill promoter, “that you still have
your sense of humor.”

“And that’s slipping too,” I growls as Stupe walks
into the cabin.

During all the time I’m off my feed—and what an‘

off !—Gilligan comes to me with complaints and whines.
The flathead’s not a bit under the weather—his brains not
having enough power to notify his stomach that it’s on the
ocean—and he can’t understand my lack of interest in his
merry mélange about menus. The first night I’m on the
fritz he drops in with a howl about the meals.

“They don’t hardly give you a thing to eat on this
raft,” he kicks. “All I got for dinner was a steak, a platter
of potatoes and some other vegetables and a half a pie.
How’s a growing lad going to live on that canary fodder?”

“You'd be surprised,” I chokes, “‘on how little a bimbo
can get by. How much you think I’m eating?”

“You missed dinner, didn’t you?” comes back Gilligan.

“Missed nothing!” I shouts. “I didn’t even aim at it.
Listen, vacuum, if you mention vittles to me again, or
drift in here with a toothpick, your mother’ll faint the
next time:she takes a look at you.”

*“My mother’s dead,”’ says Stupe.

“Your family has all the luck,” I groans, and turns to
the wall.

I draws a lot of chatty visits from Gilligan and I finds
out from Dave Hartnett, my particular side kicker in the

party, that I’m the bearded goat on account of the

other players’ refusing to cotton to that weevil.
“The boys,” the pitcher tells me, “are all off of

him with the exception of Hank Tracy, and Hank

hasn’t been quite all present and
accounted for since he was beaned
by Hopper’s fast one last year.
How’d you happen to include Stupe
in this tour, anyways?”

“IT didn’t include him,” I snaps.
“He was included on me by the
boss; but now that he is with us,
don’t treat him like he was a leper
with the smallpox trying to crash
a health-week meeting of the Ku
Ku Klan. He's human and ”

“If you were feeling better,”’ interrupts Dave, “I could
put up a brisk argument with you on that statement, Ever
hear of evolution?”’

“It wouldn’t do any good,” says I. ‘The doc tells me
that this seasickness is got to run its course.”

“Evolution,” explains Hartnett, who once had a college
skin a sheep for him, “is the idea that man ascended from
some lower form of life. Your friend Gilligan missed the
elevator, that’s all. I wouldn’t care anything about him
excepting that he’s queering us with all the passengers on
the ship. After a talk with him they shy off the rest of us,
figuring that we’re all a lot of loud speakers attached to
vacuum cleaners. Your friend Gilligan -——”’

“You pull that friend-Gilligan line again,” I splutters,
“and I'll get well just on purpose to drape your lamps with
black-and-blue awnings. I didn’t think you’d kick a man
when he was down and can’t keep anything else in the
same positior.”’

“Cheer up,’”’ says Dave. ‘We'll be in Honolulu in the
morning.”

“Hear that, stomach!” I exclaims. ‘‘ We hit terra cotta
tomorrow.” And I feels so good over the notion that I

25

climbs out of the bunk and goes on deck with Hartnett.
Stupe’s the first one of our crowd to pipe me.

“Me and Hank Tracy been having an argument,” says
he, “and we agreed to put it up to you.”

“The first mate's perfectly right,” I decides, curt.

“The first mate!” gurgles Gilligan. ‘He wasn't in on it.
What ——”

“He’s got the authority,” I cuts in sharp, “to make the
cabin boy stop whistling on Sunday morning, hasn't he?"’
With which I takes Dave by the arm and walks away.

“T thought,” grins Hartnett, ‘you wanted us to treat
Stupe like a human being?”

“I'm not sure enough of these sea dogs of mine yet,”’ I
returns, ‘to listen to any Gilligansia. Can you imagine the
heft of an argument between him and Tracy? Must of
been about whether the ocean was wetter yesterday or
tomorrow.”

“Probably wasn’t an argument at all,”’ suggests Dave.
“The chances are it was merely an exchange of a lack of
ideas.”

Just about this time a jane I'd shared a rail with on the
first day out comes up to us.

“We're giving an entertainment this evening,” says
she, ‘‘for the benefit of the Sailors’ Home. Is there any-
body in your party that can do anything—sing or dance
or play? How about yourself?”

“Lady,” I answers, ‘‘there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for
the Sailors’ Home, because, sister, there’s nobody more
hipped on home than the waif of the sea you see before you
now; but I can’t dance on an empty stomach--eyen my
own.”

“Can you do anything?” she asks Hartnett.

“I play a fair game of stud,” replies Dave modestly;
“but there is a fellow in our crowd who can make Paviowa
look like a truck caught in a bog, McCormack sound like a
fishwife with laryngitis, and Paderewski ——-”

“Who's that?” the talent scout cuts in on him
eagerly.
“J. Stupe Gilligan,” answers the pitcher, and
calls him over.
“Our greatest need,’’ says the old gal, “is for an
accompanist. Will you oblige?” she asks Stupe.
“Sure,”’ he comes back prompt.
“I didn’t know you played the piano,” I remarks.
“I never have,” says Gilligan, “but I’ve seen a
lot a guys doing it.”
ui
E MUST have hit Honolulu the wrong season of
the year. Instead of brown chicksstrumming on
ukes and doing a St. Vitus in grass undies, the only
women I saw down by the beach were either dumping
coal into ships’ bunkers, selling Rahway, New Jersey,
curios to folks from Rahway, New Jersey, or toeing
out clams in the shallows. The scenery is pretty
snappy, but just misses by an eyelash being snappy
enough to make up for seven days of muffed meais and the
society of Stupe.

“Where's that volcano they were telling us about?” he
inquires.

“There,” says I, pointing.

“I don’t see it doing any volcano-ing,” complains
Gilligan.

“This is Monday,” explains Hartnett. ‘ Did you ever
hear of an earthquake or a cyclone or any other upheavals
of Nature on a Monday?”

“Don’t they ever happen on Mondays?” asks Stupe,
serious.

“Never,” Dave assures him, solemn. “Why do you
think the women folks picked Monday for wash day? You
don’t imagine they would have if there was a chance of
the clothes all getting spotted up with lava or pulled off the
line by a hurricane, do you?”

“I never thought of that,” says Gilligan.

We have only one game scheduled in Hawaii, a set-to
with a team from the army post. Figuring on giving the
soldiers a chance
to make a good
showing, I sends
our weakest
lineup against
them. That spots
Stupe on second
base.

Gilligan never
was such a much
as an infielder,
but this day he
was an untamed
sieve. Balls hit
in his direction
went zinging
through hislunch
hooks, just stop-
ping long enough
to thumb their
noses at him, and

(Continued on
Page 115)

I Sees Gilligan, and What a Fine Messe
of Raw Meat He Turns Out to Bei

26

WOOF-WOOF!

ITH one nota-
ble exception,
I regard per-

sons who play golf asa

tribe of harmless luna-

ties, who, if there was

no such game as golf,

would probably waste ™
their Saturdays and
Sundays playing at
tennia, that being the
only game which for sublime futility surpasses golf.

The exception is Miss Roberta Bensonby Symonds,
formerly of Bosten end now of Westchester County—the
firet stone house after you turn up the road leading to the
Fenwold Country Club, which, it searcely need be added
here, is a golf course and a clubhouse for golf unfortunates,
with the usua! brick fireplace containing a section of tree
and pictures of English gentlemen playing the game in the
year 1531, ail of them apparently at the point of apoplexy.

Since three years ago last Christmas afternoon I have
had a profound admiration for Roberta Symonds and have
often told her so, in spite of the fact that she shoots a smart
eighty-five over the Fenwold course and would rather talk
about jiggers and mashies than H. G. Wells and the new
trio that seems to be coming to the fore in England.

A man talking golf is admittedly a pest, but a woman
talking golf is an anachronism that approaches the point
of complete absurdity. On the other hand, Roberta is
almost as pretty as the girl pictures in the silk-hosiery
advertisements, and generally wears an orange sweater
with blue tassels. They insist at Fenwold that she out-
ranks all the other ladies and will probably win the West-
cheater Cup for 1926

The greens committee said that her form is absolutely
perfect, which seemed to astonish the members, though I
could have told them as much at any time. I would ad-
mire Roberta even if her form was not perfect, because,
leaving her golf aside, she has a good mind, and in time
ean be directed into normal and useful occupations.

Personally I do not play games, having long held the
fixed notion that games are rubbish, and that when a man
is not oceupied in gainful or worthy endeavor he should sit
down in s comfortable plush chair and not worry the body
God gave him inte premature dissolution. I went into the
book business seven years ago because it is a quiet busi-
ness, and | prefer quiet.

Consequently I do not fit into the scheme of life in
Westchester County, where I now reside, surrounded by
golf courses; encompassed, as you might say, by thou-
sands of old golf courses and hundreds of new ones, an
noyed constantly by millions of golfers with bowlegs and
atrocious taste in raiment, and by hundreds of millions of
dirty-faced caddies who have no respect for an American
citizen unless he wears baggy pants and drives a sedan.

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

9 By FRANK CONDON

ms * ‘

7 Bxamined a Twisted Rod at the Front End of the Roadster and Found We Couid Proceed

It has been calculated that we have one caddie in West-
chester County for every fish egg in Russia, and a fish egg
will not annoy a person unless attacked.

Automobiles tearing furiously toward golf links run me
down at intervals, and knickered maniacs wave their nib-
licks at me and demand to know what I mean by stopping
traffic, my own car being such a small roadster that it
could not possibly interfere with traffic. It is painted a dull
green and looks so much like the surrounding scenery that
ordinary sane people never notice it.

Wherever you turn, frenzied-mgn are to be séen hurry
ing forward to their stymies. There is a fixed glare in the
eye of the habitual golfer that should, be, ealled to the
attention of the authorities, ahdoif' Ll’ were President Coo-
lidge I should certainly worry-overthe futureof the United
States. Two hundred new golf courses, Were started within
the past year, and it affects my ‘business, because golf
players do not purchase books, unless it’ happens to be
How to Keep Your Head Down, by Niblick, or
How Not to Look Up, by Driver.

To be sure, living in Westchester has a good
side, because it was there I met Roberta, wearing
her orange sweater, and asked her to marry me,
indicating that my Booke Shoppe was doing nicely
and would do better. We talked it over in consid-
erable detail.

“Will you?” I inquired, meaning marry me.

“No, Leander,” she replied, smiling in her usual
pleasant way.

“ Why? ”

“Because you're so small and helpless,”’ she said.

The physical fact was and remains true; but
Roberta laughed during our talk, and my theory
is that if a girl smiles when she formally declares
she will not marry you, the thing to do is to hang
about and badger her with questions: I did so,
until it began to seem useless.

“Of course,” I said sharply on another occasion,

“if you're getting your husbands in by the hun-
dredweight, that’s another matter.”

“You should never marry, Leander,” she replied.

“T never'will,” I said, and I meant it.

Roberta is probably the only genuinely pretty
woman that ever played golf in Westchester County.

ILLUSTRATED

« but_never does any real toil.

October 17,1925

Br mM. LZ. BLUMENTHAL

pm ”

pwerese fk cc”

+. ;

Pri a F
_) } r
& b+ ,

There may be lady
golfers in Florida
or California who
smite the eye hap-
pily; but out our
way the female
divot diggers are
invariably stern
and rockbound.

I am forced to except Roberta Symonds, because even
when she is clad in her golfing armor, she remains a delight-
ful spectacle, a ray of sunshine in an otherwise gloomy
world, and the male members of Fenwold go to all sorts of
silly lengths to win her casual attention.

The two golfing males who have been fluttering about
her most diligently for the past year are John Stevenson
and Lloyd Jarvis Tripp, both members of Fenwold and
likewise of the great American leisure class that has offices
The Stevensons make ele-
vators for apartment buildings, and Lloyd Tripp’s hard-
working father owns a factory in Newark, New Jersey, with
branches in five cities. Both parents are now striving
desperately to pass the ten- million mark, or maybe it’s

> but neither son is striving at anything, except to

Kéep in the early eighties, with a seventy-six now and

then. The demands upon their time are so infinitesimal
that they can and do devote themselves exclusively to

& Caretese Workman Had Left a Lawn Roller

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 27

playing golf and winning the hand of Roberta Symonds;
and despite the fact that I once was in the race myself, or
thought I was, they come to me with confidences and seek
encouragement. Each man has won Roberta twice within
the last twelvemonth, but not quite to the point of a
church wedding with flowers and a news-reel man on the
steps.

“Are you going to marry John?” I asked Roberta early
this spring, sitting upon the lower porch of her house and
feeling a trifle depressed.

“I don’t know,” she said. ‘‘One can never tell about the
future.”

“How about Lloyd?”

“‘He’s a jolly dear,’ she answered, “and he shoots a
mashie shot as well as Bobby Jones. Lloyd is a. boy with a
wonderful future and there are people who believe he may
some day win the state amateur championship.”

“That’s lovely,” I said. “ What’s it got to do with your
marrying him?”

“You are talking about marriage,”’ she laughed; “I’m
not. If you’re going into town, you can take me if you
promise not to drive into a vegetable truck.”

This was a slight reference to my ability with a motor
car, which is nothing to boast about. I drive a car rather
badly, but I do not worry over it any more than I would
worry over inability to swallow swords.

Time proved to me that a beautiful golfing girl will never
find much to interest her in a book salesman. She never
shared my delight in cross-word puzzles, and eventually I
left off asking Roberta to participate in my future and
found considerable solace in the autobiographies of famous
men who lived and died bachelors.

Now and then, but without sentimental eruptions, I had
tea with her on the veranda of the Fenwold clubhouse, and
occasionally I walked a few holes with her when she played
and found it rather pleasant to observe the businesslike
dexterity with which she struck the ball.

Spring wore on intosummer. Roberta Symonds won a
tournament, one large useless cup and two thimble-size
cuplets, and John Stevenson wandered into my front yard
one evening to smoke a cigar in my rocker and discourse
upon the illusory phantasmagoria popularly known as life.

“Lloyd Tripp makes me sick,” he remarked, after a few
practice swings.

I admitted that I had at times likewise noticed a vague
illness in myself, due largely to Mr. Tripp’s continued
existence.

“His father has a factory in Tokio,” John said moodily.
“Tf it isn’t Tokio, it’s Yokohama, or else Nagasaki. Lloyd
is utterly no good on earth to any human being, and he cer-
tainly ought to go over to Japan and settle down.”

“Of course,” I admitted. “Or anywhere else east of
Suez.”

“‘He’s a handsome brute, isn’t he?”

I agreed that Lloyd was handsomer than most men.

“That's why he ought to sail for Japan and get himself
into some serious business.”’

“s

&

.

“‘And grow up with the earthquakes,” I said heartily.
“Why is it you have suddenly taken this hatred of him?”

‘Because as long as he continues to dawdle about here
Roberta Symonds will not marry me—that’s why.”

“And if he goes to Japan to make rugs, she will?” I
asked.

“Certainly,” said John. “ We've talked it over. I know
how she feels toward me. It’s that pest of a Lloyd. .
Roberta’s a lovely soul, isn’t she?”’

“She has nice eyes,’”’ I admitted.
bang into a brassy shot. Marvelous!”

“So,” John continued, reverting to his cheerless tone,
“T’m going to play him for it.”

“For what?”

“To see whether he goes to Japan—I think it’s Tokio—
or whether I banish myself to London. We've got a plant
in London.”

“Not England?” I asked, brightening up.

“Certainly.”

“It’s an excellent idea,”’ I said. ‘‘ Roberta tells me you
and Lloyd are evenly matched. It’s a marvelous notion.
I suppose if it turns out a tie, you both go.”

“Tt can’t be a tie. However, you wouldn’t know that.
I hit a longer ball off the tee, but Lioyd’s iron game is
steadier. If I’m going right I'll trim him; but it’s a cer-
tainty that his pitch shots are surer than mine.”

*Then,” I said, with sudden enthusiasm, an enthusiasm
which I had never previously felt for any part of the silly
game, “Lloyd ought to give you two woofs.”

John had been querulously flicking the tip of his shoe
with his stick and staring off into the woodland opposite
my house. He now turned and faced me directly.

“Two what?” he asked.

“Woofs,” I repeated. He looked dazed and stopped
flicking. ‘Is it possible,” I continued, “that you do not
recognize a woof when a woof is mentioned? The woof
story is a locker-room yarn first told in Scotland in the year
1645 by a man named Jock to another man named Sandy.
It is one of the oldest tales in the lore of golf.”

John shook his head.

“You should be up on the literature of your pastime,”
I said. “Why play a game unless you know about it?”

“All right,” he said impatiently.

“He gives me two woofs. What are
they?”

“You then have, if Lloyd will agree
to give them, two vocal explosions
indiscriminately called woofs, wows,
boos, haws, hos, and so forth. You
merely step close to Lloyd at any time
during the affray and shout ‘Woof!’
as loudly as you can. Naturally, it
upsets him, he misses whatever shot
he is trying to make and you gain an
advantage. If he agrees you take
the first woof on the first tee, as he
drives off.”

‘And how she can

“ And the second one?” John asked, looking a bit inter-
ested.

“You never take that one,” I replied. ‘The psychology
of the stratagem is to refrain from using it. Your opponent
is constantly expecting it. As the game continues he falls
an easy prey to various nervous disorders and his self-
control is shattered, making it simple for you to defeat
him. . And you never heard of a woof! A fine gelfer
you are!”

“Tt sounds interesting,” said John. “‘I wonder if Licyd
has heard about it.”

“Probably not. You have to be in the book business to
know about golf.”

He left my house in a much brighter mood and seemed
to be chuckling as he passed down the walk. Three days
later I escorted Roberta to Fenwold, where she had a match
with a well-known woman star from Santa Barbara. Her
own car being broken down, she telephoned over to see if
I would drive her out to the club, which I was glad to do.
On the way she was rather silent, except for a few words
when I happened to touch a stone wali with the right
fender.

“T hear you’re going to marry John Stevenson,” I said,
as we passed Idlewild Cemetery, uttering the remark
merely to make conversation.

“Ycudidn’t hear anything of thesort,” rejoined Roberte,
“unless John himself volunteered, in which case it would
be opinion rather than news.”

“Then you're not going to marry him?"

“Perhaps I am. He is one of the most amiable men I
know, and he surely would make a dependable husband.
There—there you are. . Leave it to you.”

The last few words had to do with a slight ditch into
which one of the wheels strayed, jerking us about without
damage. You could scarcely call it a ditch, and I ran into it
simply because I was paying close attention to what the giri

(Continued on Page 183)

Directly Between Me and the Clubhouse, and What With Overhearing Roberta Speak and Trying to Turn My Head Quickly, I Naturatly Fett Over the Rolter

28

COUSIN JANE

ANE always dated her
J growing old from a day
when she had been
working in that garden. It
was 80 long afterward that
the work had been shorn
of ali ingratiating disguise;
the early childish pretense
that she was playing a
game in which she could
brilliantly surpass Marcy
Tedmon or make herself
believe that the growing
things were her children to
be tended and made fat,
and entertained the while
with tales of the good time
they would have in the
great warm cellar so soon
to house them from winter.
On this day she could
hardly have recalied Seth
Hacker's first warm ap-
provals after Sareh’s tru-
ancy, his stout reiterations
that this garden had be-
come a different garden
since the night that trifling
town-looker eplit the wind.
Long years since, Seth had
quit muttering about the
truant, Jane on this day
straightened a moment to
rest from her stooping pos-
ture above an onion bed of
promise, her mind placidly
awere of nothing but that
the ache in her back would
quickty go,

Beyond that, she was
eonscious only of silence
and warmth, an immense
soothing peace that
brooded al} about her, pat-
terned lightly by aimless
bird notes from the or-
chard, the languid, heavy
drone of u hovering bumble-
bee and the scent of blos-
some, of turned earth, of
green staiks lately watered
that the sun already
stewed-—scents that
seemed to loaf toward her,
unhurried and uninsistent.
She floated restfully on this.

Then from no cause
outside, where nothing
changed, she was caught in a startled wonder, as if the firm
floor of the garden bed had become a quicksand. She stiff-
ened under the shock, flexing all her body against a menace
of something there close, but unseen.

“Why—why!" she breathed; a weak, dismayed admis-
sion of this fear that so absurdly flooded her.

The sound of her own voice steadied her, lifted her
outside herself, safe once more, it seemed. There she was,
standing securely in a garden all too familiar, among
prosaic known things. She stooped to piuck a reassuring
weed from the bed, shook the earth from its roots and
dropped it on a pile of its fellows, already withered; reached
for another, to prove to herself that nothing had happened.

Put something had, and again she voiced her weak little
“Why—why!” of acknowledgment. Pulling more weeds
didn't wipe the thing out.

Yet to her bigher sense, there was nothing to frighten.
There couldn't be, Nothing had changed, from the staunch
earth to the birds above it in the orchard and the great
sleepy drone of the bee that circled her. The barn slept
in the sun as always, giving cff its smell of scorched wood;
and further on she could see the kitchen entrance, with its
screen door held back by a metal pail, because Chong
wouldn't be bothered to open and shut it. Climbing a
trellis beyond this was the bush of white roses, ‘ Blossom-
ing ita foot head off,”’ as Seth Hacker each spring remarked.
She was still startled, but now she was more abashed than
afraid, as if she were being observed by hidden eyes, in-
scrutable eyes that perhaps didn’t threaten, but were yet
disconcerting

Casually, she pulled several weeds as a testimony that
things were the aame, then walked from the spot where she
had suffered this curious agitation. But the thing dogged
her so meaningly that when she reached the shade of the

“Het

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

By HARRY LEON WILSON

TLLVUSTRATEDO

October 17,1925

BY HENRY RALEIGH

happened; this thing was
that all the life about her
had suddenly gone so old
that it seemed beyond even
time itself. Everything had
aged; the earth she worked
in, the barn she rested by,
the rosebush so lush with
deceiving blooms; even the
house she was now study-
ing. She had, to be sure,
always thought of this as an
old house; but now it had
taken on, in a second, the
vast load of all time.

‘*Why—why!’’ she
breathed again, half com-
prehending, still lost in
wonder. ‘Everything is so
old, old, old; and only a
few minutes ago it wasn’t.
Everything’s old and every-
one’s old.”

Suddenly she laughed,
low, to herself. To be sure,
it was funny, she thought;
a funny thing to learn in a
flash like that. “ Every-
thing’s old, everyone’s
old———”’ Chong came pat-
tering from the kitchen
door in his slippers, re-
garded her with sun-
dimmed eyes a moment,
turned for a mop that
stood up-ended beside the
door and pattered in again.
And Chong himself had
grown very old along with
everything else in those re-
vealing moments. He was
bent and moved feebly, his
eyes deep in a time-creased
mask that seemed to have
been too loosely molded.
Yet an hour ago she had
seen him and he had been
the accustomed Chong, no-
ticeably without age.

She felt moved to call
to him, “How could you
change so?’’ and she
wanted to plead, ‘‘Oh,
change back,change back!”

Her eyes left the kitchen

You are Too! If You're Not My Girl, What Did You Kiss Me For?"

barn she sank to a bench, stiffly bracing her back against
the warmed wall, letting her hands rest beside her on the
seat, drawing her feet well back. There was a trace of
primness in the posture, and she consciously felt prim, for
the hidden eyes not only continued to peer but their effect
was now reénforced by what she at last had to admit were
voices, It seemed absurd; she clearly knew it was absurd
and she stoutly tried to banish it with denials. There were
voices, hushed voices, sometimes mere whispers; but they
were lively, communicative whispers, furtively telling se-
crets about her.

The voices were not unfriendly, any more than the eyes
had been—though not friendly, either. The assault was
without passion or even prejudice. It seemed to her she
was only of a passing interest to the eyes and voices. And
she couldn’t really hear anything. When she consciously
listened, head tilted, ears straining, there were only the
sounds she had known before. But when she stoppec this
the voices were there. So she couldn’t hear them—only
feel them. Even so, she felt their tones, their inflections.
The words were never distinguishable, but she could feel
their intention. She was being peered at and discussed by
things mildly curious about her.

She shivered and left the bench, finding relief in the first
shaft of sun that reached her. She stood bathing a moment
in this, then began a hesitating pace toward the house, her
steps uncertain and of uneven length. Halfway there, close
by the vaulting white roses, she lost that dismaying sense
of pursuit. There were no more eyes or felt voices in whis-
pered dispassionate comment. Her mind cleared and she
found in it a flashing realization that everything about her
had in a few seconds grown very old—aged past betief.

She was still agitated, even if the eyes and voices had
definitely gone, because a tremendous thing had genuinely

door, wandered uneasily up
the side of the house, stop-
ping abruptly at the high-
peaked narrow gable with the two staring windows. The
eyes were tight-closed under green lids now, shutting in
what had been her room before she moved to the one Sarah
left vacant—as she had moved into Sarah’s apron. All at
once she felt herself staring across some wide abysm of time
profoundly deep and impassable and vague with distance.
Slowly her vision mastered the clean details of that mean
face winking with sour malice at a half-frightened little girl
in a velvet jacket and bonnet with pink rosebuds, a plaid
silk frock and glossy buttoned shoes!

“Why—why!” Again her low cry of helpless acknowl-
edgment, of dismayed comprehension.

She stared at the child’s troubled face and saw the com-
ing of a brave pucker of pretended amusement to the brow.
Never before had she seen this face from the outside. So
cunning was the illusion, her half-shut eyes followed the
uneasy little girl into a cavern of a hall, up a hostile stair-
way into a house forbiddingly silent. She was sharply
aware of a longing to put out a hand to comfort and re-
assure that forlorn other self of hers.

It was only after she had followed her with a memory all
too unerring until the child had survived those first perils
of a seemingly deserted house, and eome to a happy crisis
where a shield of amusement needn’t any longer be pre-
tended, that Jane drew a full breath and awoke to what,
she considered, must have been the meaning of-all this
queer inner tumult. And it was nothing much, certainly
nothing to cause the sharp alarm she had felt.

“Why,” she thought, “it means I’ve grown old myself —
like the garden and barn and Chong and the rosebush.
There I was thinking they’d grown old—and not me—and
it wasn’t so. I’m old too,”

She continued to stand there, a little dazed, but no longer
fearing anything; she began again to follow the child

va ra

a

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 29

through the house, sharply scanning every detail of her
first little discoveries and adventures, all glowingly alight
now when she would have thought them darkly overlaid
with years. She watched her with the grown-ups, and
especially watched her solitary, in the big parlor that first
day; in the dejected library where picture albums lay
dusty on a table, and in that glassed perch high over the
house which she had made her own private nook.

She broke suddenly into a little confidential laugh. There
had been a day when she mourned the loss of her crystal
that made all the world a rainbow, searching the rooms for
it, recalling barely that she had laid it down some place.
Now, all at once, she knew where it was—out of sight, but
within easy reach on a ledge in that unfinished cupola
interior. She had been up there pretending she was an as-
tronomer with amagictelescope. Again she laughed, wishing
she could tell the bereft owner exactly where it had been left.

It was the face of that other self she chiefly studied,
watching its shifting revealments of glee and doubt and
wonder and wise comprehension. It was a face she had
never actually seen, but merely known from looking out
through its soft gray eyes.

“How funny!” she thought. “How old I am!” And she
began to count the years. Of course she was old, but why
should she have found it out only in this strange way—
eyes, and whispers that you felt?

She went slowly into the house by the door she had first
entered and stood listening a moment. From above,
through the stair well, she could hear the timid steps of the
child moving softly along over a thick carpet. She could
hear a door creak as it opened. She smiled at this, knowing
it to be nonsense; then went to the front of the house and
halted in the doorway of the big parlor.

There was no change in this room—or in the eager face
of the child she could see exploring it that first day of her
coming. She saw the dress of brown striped gingham, the
low brown tennis shoes, the pale hair in its long braid from
which a half-tied pink satin ribbon limply dangled; very
clearly she could observe the twitching of fingers that
wanted to test the substance of things sacredly under glass.

She went to the table, instinctively softening her tread,
and stared unbelievingly at the water lilies afloat on their
mirror lake, then at the wax fruit in the porcelain basket
on a little console table against the wall. Lilies and fruit
were still pristine in their freshness.

“Funny,” she thought again. ‘I must have believed I
was like them—and now I’m as old as anyone.”

An impulse born of this reflection took her to stand be-
fore the big mantel mirror. She could see herself there now,
as she hadn’t been able to the first day. And the face she
saw confused her by reason of her having seen for so many
eventful minutes that other face of her child self. Yet this
was the face she had seen in the glass this morning, had
been seeing for so many mornings of so many years. It was
perfectly familiar, of course; it wouldn’t have stayed
changeless like the things of wax. It was a sign of her ab-
sorption that she left the mirror without replacing a fallen
strand of hair.

“Funny, funny,” she thought, and laughed softly at a
poignant little memory that took her again to the basket of
fruit. With fingers that were tremulous, she held up the
bunch of perfect grapes and turned over a richly silver-and-
scarlet pear reposing beneath it in fadeless youth. The
underside of this magnificent fruit had been foully
gouged—plainly by a too-curious thumb nail.

“ Aren’t you ashamed?” she rebuked. “And turning it
underneath in that sneaky way so no one would notice!”

She went to stand before the music box, still brave in its
gilt. A touch of the knob and the thin little waltz tinkled
out, as young as any wax lilies. This invoked the long-
forgotten image of dancing Sarah—but also the child
watching her, wondering if she were a ghost sinking into
a pool of light that lay widely about her skirts.

The music jarred a little, though she didn’t know why.
She made it break off midway of a bar, with an absurd
likeness to a speaker ceasing abruptly after the glib begin-
ning of a sentence. She looked out to the stairway and
caught the flutter of a child’s skirt as it vanished beyond
the turn. She took the stairs herself, found herself lingering
before the door of Marcy’s room, vacant of its owner, and
stepped idly in. There was his lightly poised Mercury with
the cunningly winged heels. That hadn’t aged, neither had
the Psyche swooning with love, nor the sun-flecked cattle
in a meadow glade. ?

But she—the little girl in the buttoned boots—the proud
wearer of Sarah Tedmon’s abandoned apron—age had
foreclosed its mortgage on her before it seemed ever the
time of youth was spent.

Her eyes rose to the skull, still leering from its perch,
still smirking something choice to itself.

Yet before growing old, Jane had had, of course, to grow
up. This took a great deal longer, at least in her own pri-
vate system of chronology. In her imagined time scale

childhood filled a day and growing old but an hour;
whereas growing up had taken a full, long week inter-
spersed with uncounted winters and summers that aligned
themselves in a broad and easily discerned perspective,
dotted with markers to show where an old stage had
merged with a new.

Sarah had erected the first of these, to mark the com-
pletion of Jane’s childhood. The process of growing up
began with Sarah’s flight. It continued to be an always
understandable process, with but few perplexing mysteries,
sudden jerks or confusing leaps or baffling confrontations
that ensued all in a flash. There was nothing in it to dis-
may or even to fluster. But for the markers that towered
here and there, the stages would have merged insensibly
to the eye, so seemly and gradual the pace.

The first of these indicated the time when something
again had to be done about Jane’s dresses; something
radical this time. As a makeshift, to bridge what might
have been an embarrassing gap, there had been the few
dresses Sarah left. For a time Jane enveloped her lengthen-
ing stature in these; but they were too few, and even these
few in a state of disrepair that left much to be wished for,
though they did present Jane as a grown young woman
from every point of view—not from the front alone, as
when she had donned merely the apron.

So Mrs. Slater—called in as a seamstress—became the
next marker in Jane’s retrospect. It was the beginning of
an association that proved happy for both. Mrs. Slater
wasn't a woman to be had for hire, being the wife of an
eminent blacksmith and having a home she needn't have
left for work abroad, one of those smail but commodious
white houses set bashfully back of a yard full of roses.

Jane was astonished to learn that Mrs. Slater came
chiefly because she regarded this youngest of the Ted-
mons as a forlorn and uncared-for girl who needed the
motherly counsel of a grown woman even more than she

. needed longer dresses. It gave Jane a new view of herself.

She had never felt either forlorn or uncared-for; was un-
able even now to adopt this view of herself, though she
kindly pretended to when she learned that Mrs. Slater pre-
sumed it; and the woman did, in the course of her labors,
impart a great deal of sound information about the priv:-
leges, penalties and responsibilities of womanhood—
things Jane hadn’t supposed to exist.

She was a very broad woman, Mrs. Slater; perhaps, as
Jane considered, too broad for her height; but she had tiny

(Continued on Page 118)

She Statked Past the Shop With a Rigid Disdain, Wondering if Gus Wouldn't See That He Was Being Scorned

30 THE SATURDAY EVENING

SPANISH MEN’S

POST

October 17, 1925

RE

T Pat Out My Left Hand and Caught Him by it, Giving the Kaot Enough Twist to Make His Eyes Buige

x
HE long twilight of the latish summer has in it,
T's the criap ateel-like atmosphere of autumn, but
a hase, a mellowness. Though far off, one could

think of October, the reddening apple, the browning
nut. It was like a magic in Destiny Bay, as though here
were the resting place of the earth spirit, breathing easily in
its sleep. Back of the trees, the apple trees, the elms, the
horse-chestnuts, and the flaming copper beeches, the smoke
rose from the enimneys of our house in slender blue columns.
The linnets were twittering their evensong, and the shrill
exclaiming swallows in groups of five or six darted through
the orchard. Over the ancient turf through the ancient
trees walked 2 slim whiteness, a slim vital whiteness un-
known to me, and that for a minute I took to be possibly
aome phantasm of the dead, some lady of the MacFarlanes
come in the twilight to revisit the antique house of happi-
ness; and lest something should be lacking to my kins-
woman, | went forward, my heart going so fast that I knew
I waa afraid, and cursed myself for it, for there is nothing
so diascourteous toward the dead as fear, But it was no
phantaam; it was most vital. There, in a frock of white
mustin decorated with gold embroidery in the Swiss fash-
ion, waa the one we were accustomed to call Don Anthony.

I must have gaped, for with the change of clothes had
come a change of face and spirit that was extraordinary.
You would heve thought that one who had seemed effemi-
nate in a boy’s garments would have looked boyish in a
girl's. But no! There was a slim vitality like a birch
tree’s, That was all. Her hair, which I could see now was
not red, but copper-colored like the copper beech, was a
frame for her eweet grave face, her calm virginal gray eyes.
One would not notice it was short, unless you saw the back
of the slim strong neck. It might have been some cunning
way of doing it. There was something proud and lovely
about her, like a fine two-year-old in the saddling inclosure
waiting to go to the tapes.

“Amn't I the fool of the world?” I said.

“Yes, Kerry,” she smiled,

ILLUSTRATED

By DONN BYRNE

GRUGER

ar Ff.

“And who might you be?” I asked.

“T might be the Queen of Sheba, or Queen Victoria her-
self; but it happens that I’m Antonia Dorotea Sophia
Eugenia Maria del Lamen de Leyva, Duchess of la Men-
tera and Countess of Monreal del Campo,” she said. “If it
please Your Honor!”’ And she curtsied.

“That's a lot, isn't it?”

“I’m usually called Ann-Dolly. I'd like you to call me
that too, Kerry—Ann-Dolly.”

“Look here,” I said, ‘I don’t get the hang of this at all.
Are you sure you're a female woman?”

“Of course,”’ she said. ‘I don’t come up to the shape of
your friend pretty Molly Brannigan, the barmaid’s bust,
and +”

“That'll do,” said I. “Listen. When you were a boy
you told me you learned English at school in England.
Now where are you?”

“T learned English at a convent— Roehampton, to be
exact. Kerry, I do believe you think I’m some sort of
adventuress. You think I’m lying.”

“Well,” I said, “I don’t think you're an adventuress;
but as to lying, didn’t you come here in a boy’s clothes and
live here in a boy’s clothes? If that’s not lying,” said I,
“TI don’t know what is.”

“Kerry dear,”’ she said patiently, “when my grand-
father, the cld duke, took to wandering in his head and
wandering in his feet, I had to come along with him; and
when I tell you we were poor, you don’t understand, for a
poor person to you is a barefoot person with a shawl. But,
Kerry, a shabby young woman cen go as a young man with
a day suit and a dinner coat, and stay at small hotels, and
not have a lot of fuss and expense.”

“T never thought of that.”

“And perhaps that’s not exactly the real reason,
Kerry. But a lad in the world, defenseless and poor,
ean get through; but a girl is another matter. Also,
if you are a penniless princess, you have more trouble
than if you were a girl of the people, for every cheap

wealthy man bothers you, and even your own people, your
own caste, if you are pretty, have less mercy than on a
midinetie. Kerry, if I were in Spain or France, alone, and
had changed from boy’s into girl’s clothes, and someone
had come into the garden, as you have come, do you think
they’d have asked me who I was—and called me a liar?”

“Why not?”

“Dear Kerry, you are wrong. They'd have called me
beautiful and kissed my hand, and tried boldly to hold it,
and overwhelmed me with sickly oversweet compliments.
When you have a father and brothers, or money in the
bank, it’s very different.”

“Well,” said I, “you won’t be overwhelmed with com-
pliments here, though I suppose in your way, now that I
come to look at you, you’re quite good-looking.”

“Quite good-looking! I’m the best-looking thing you’ve
ever seen!”

“My girl,” I told her, “if you’re going to change your
clothes, you'd better change your attitude. It doesn’t
strike me as being particularly ladylike. There’s a lady I
know, and if you’d model yourself a little on her ——”’

My Uncle Valentine came down the garden.

“Well, Ann-Dolly?”

“I was just going to tell Kerry, sir ——’

“Tell him nothing,” broke in my Uncle Valentine.
“Tell him to go to hell!”

“That was what I was going to tell him, sir,” said Ann-
Dolly.

To me she was just a new lovely phenomenon like some
April evening, the downy breast of spring. She was like a
river singing among willows where kingfishers skim. She
was there, and you thanked God she was, as you thanked
God for a fine day, and then went on your way taking it

SS
é

a

:

— ————_

A,

EE a

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 3t

for granted. The queer thing to me was this: That it
seemed as if she had been always in Destiny Bay, like the
great copper beech tree, and the hierarchy of bees. Also it
seemed as if she weren’t to leave Destiny Bay, for my
Uncle Valentine tossed me a bundle of papers from our
solicitors, and I could see it dealt with the ducal estate.

“It comes to about a hundred pounds a year,”’ I worked
it out.

“There or thereabouts,” said my Uncle Valentine.

“Sure she can’t live on that,” I said.

“No,” said my Uncle Valentine. “Well, what are you
going to do?”

“‘She’d better stay here.”

“But how?” said my Uncle Valentine. ‘‘Can’t you see,
you poor mick, that it isn’t fair to give her charity, and that
she’s too proud to take it? You'll have to regularize it,”

“We'll give her a job of work.”

“Grooming the horses, maybe,”” sneered my Uncle
Valentine.

“No,” said I, “grooming my Aunt Jenepher; not
grooming—training—what the devil is the word? Com-
panion—companion to my Aunt Jenepher.”

My Uncle Valentine rose, as was his custom when pro-
foundly moved. He shook hands silently with me. He
slapped me on the back—something like being hit with a
sledge hammer.

““My sweet fellow, Kerry! By damn, but my sound
man!”

So Ann-Dolly was made happy in Destiny Bay. She
felt she had a standing in the house, and worried no more
about money. The sweet gravity of my Aunt Jenepher was
set off by her merriment. To see her in the garden fighting
with Duncan for flowers was a sight. Also you might come
on her standing in the stable yard, her hands in the pockets
of a shooting jacket, discussing the form of horses with
James Carabine, At evening, though, she became once more
the young princess out of Grimm’s tales, soft auburn head
and gray eyes of wonder. I couldn’t find much fault with
her now for singing “‘ Believe me, if all ——’”’ It isn’t a song
for a man, that; but it’s a grand song for a woman, women
being so optimistic.

I had wondered what Jenico would make of the meta-
morphosis; how he would act, what he would say. It’s a
funny thing, but I could always trust Cousin Jenico to be
more gentlemanly than myself. When it comes to the
studbook I can give Jenico a stone and beat him by five
lengths in as many furlongs, for I am MacFarlane of
Destiny Bay through and through. My mother was a
De Vesci, and her mother a Beauford of Athy, whereas
Jenico is a Grant; nice Scottish gentry, to be sure, but
that’s all. His mother was a MacFarlane out of O’Don-
nell, aboriginal Irish. I’m better bred, if there’s anything
in that; but Jenico, on occasions of ceremony, makes me
look like the village gawk. Jenico is never rude, as I am,
He is courteously aloof. Of course, Jenico is never genteel;
but then he takes no pains to show he isn’t, such as making
a healthy racket in the feeding trough. We both do the
right thing, I hope, but Jenico does it nicely.

So I was keen to see the finished courtesy, the man-of-
the-worldliness Jenico would exhibit when introduced to
Ann-Dolly. After all, to meet formally for the first time
the young duchess, from whom, a few days before, you
were urging to have the trousers removed, is a sporting
event.

I settled down in a good ring-side seat.

He greeted her with a nice formality, said it must be a
relief to assume her wonted attire—“‘wonted attire,” I felt
to be a good horse—and then he asked her if she thought
the weather would hold.

She seemed just as awkward in meeting him as he in
meeting her. A funny thing, but they looked at each other
in a strained sort of way, and looked away from each other.
And then Ann-Dolly, nearly white in the face, said she
thought the weather would hold, and Jenico said he hoped
so. And there the conversation languished.

All through the evening, when she was not looking at
him he was looking at her; and when he was not looking
at her she was looking at him. There was a dog beginning
to be fashionable then; a dog called the Belgian police
hound, that was neither Belgian nor police nor hound, but
the German sheep dog, which is neither a good sheep dog,
compared to ours, nor a good companion. Jenico hung on

my words. I might have been the sibyl at Cuma, from
the attention he gave me. At last he went. In the hall, I
found Ann-Dolly, her eyes bright with rage.

“Kerry,” she said, “your Cousin Jenico’s a damned
fool.”

“He’s the world’s greatest idiot, Ann-Dolly. Sure, the
whole countryside knows that. Sure, you ought to have
known that before. Didn’t you read his books?”

“Kerry,” she said, “when I called Jenico a fool —-—

“A damned fool you called him.”

“Well, a damned fool then—I meant I was a bit sick of
him. Just that.”

“At times, Ann-Dolly, he nauseates me too.”

“Kerry, you're a filthy brute. Good night.”

xi

Y UNCLE Valentine, spick-and-span as a bride-

groom, leaned across the breakfast table with concern
upon his tanned brow. He held an imposing-looking bank-
er’s draft in his hand, a huge green check with black em-
bossed lettering. But for what amount it was drawn I
couldn’ tell. Those things are deceptive. It might have
been for tuppence.

“I wonder,” said I to myself, with memories of the barn-
stormers in my mind, “if it’s a thing that the old home-
stead’s gone.”

“The English,” said my Uncle Valentine—“the English,
Kerry, I regret to find, are an inconceivably drunken
nation.”

“T hadn’t noticed, sir. I thought they were never partic-
ularly intemperate. Rather a sound crowd.”

“That’s the worst of it, Kerry. They are secret drink-
ers; a nation of secret drinkers. I have before me,”’ said
my Uncle Valentine, “a dividend check from Jenico’s
brewery. The profits on this investment are so large as to
be immoral. The amount of beer that company brews
and disposes of is incredible.”” My Uncle Valentine shook
his head. “It’s the end of the empire,” said my Uncle
Valentine.

“But why should it be drunk in England?” I asked.

(Continued on Page 159)

AR A A

The Old Clock in the Hall Had Rumbied Out Eleven When the Door of the Gun Room Opened and Ann+Doliy Came in

32 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

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PHILADELPHIA, OCTOBER 17, 1925

Time to Go Siow

EACHING from Far Rockaway to Florida and the

, Gulf, and thrusting fingers far into the Appalachians,
a vigorous land boom is in full swing. Many varieties of
property participate in the general ballyhoo. There are
seashore parcels, sand lots by the ocean. Some are of the
sort which atay where they were put; others yield to the
pounding of the sea and are swept away by coastal currents
to broaden other beaches.

Other land is fetching unheard-of prices, not so much on
ite own account as by reason of the climate which prevails
in the air ebove it. Thousands of buyers who think they are
speculating in land are in reality gambling on climate. They
are betting that an increasing demand for mild winter tem-
peratures and perpetual sunshine will make them rich, no
matter where their exposures to the warm winter sun may lie.

In the northern country abapdoned farms are being
snapped up. City people plan to play with profit where
country people farmed at a loss. The trade in modern villas
is brisker than ever and some are as good as they are good-
looking. Others will fall apart before this year’s babies are
ten years old. In the big cities the construction of apart-
ment houses has gone on at such a furious rate that many
localities are already overbuilt in respect to high-priced
rooms, though the shortage of moderate-priced living ac-
commodations is still acute in some cities.

Business and commercial properties are having their own
speciai boom. Corner lots in central districts are soaring;
and those who deal extensively in them study popuiation
figures and hazard fortunes on the belief that in years to
come, years only a few decades away, the going values of
today wiil be dwarfed into insignificance.

All these booms will have separate histories and they will
differ among themselves as widely as the classes of property
dealt in and the varying merite of the units in each class.
Of one thing we may be certain: Great fortunes and small
will be won and lost. Sometimes luck, sometimes judg-
ment will apportion the winnings and the losings.

No common transaction is hedged about with more
legal formalities than the transfer of real property; but it is
not their end and aim to protect the fool from the conse-
quences of his folly. Let the buyer beware. saith the law;
but many a foolish buyer never exercises his wariness until

he has given up his money. Men buy lots sight unseen,
though there is nothing on the plen to indicate whether
they are under water or merely in the heart of a swamp.
They buy others which are veritable terra firma but are so
remote from towns and railroads that they will have no
value for half a century. Town properties are continually
being sold at inflated prices which discount every probable
favorable development. Much has been written about the
bad boy of economics called Unearned Increment. Very
little is said about his wicked brother, Shrinking Value;
and yet, somewhere or other, the latter is always on the job.

Though caution should always temper speculation, there
are times when its employment is peculiarly essential. The
present phase of our national expansion is one of those
periods. Too much care and circumspection cannot be
used, whether in the purchase of rea) property or in outlay
for securities of any except the most conservative type.
The temptation to rush in and try to duplicate the profit-
able operations of others is sometimes almost irresistible.
The most eager buyers are those who buy at the top of the
market; who buy without careful inspection and deliberate
investigation. This is a good time to look before you leap,
lest you land in a swamp or among the debris of an
exploded boom.

Beyond the Border

HERE is so much work to be done in the world, with
such possibilities of its being -well done, that no
healthy-minded person should have time for pessimism.
Consider the great land to the south of us. It has never
lacked for the more enthusiastic type of friend who sees in
each new administration a quick millennium. We, on this
side of the border, can only hope that the statement is liter-
ally true that our neighbor to the south is at last emerging
from its long eclipse, and more particularly from the de-
plorable conditions which followed its revolutionary period.
Signs are not lacking that such is the case. True, the way
is long and hard to go. Democracy is not attained over-
night, especially with a population the racial character of
most of which makes Western education a slow process.
Every allowance should be made for the fact that social
dregs from the States make possible the offensive drinking
resorts along the border. Yet crossing the intangible line
from one land to the other produces a profound impression.
There is no question that on one side enterprise, initiative
and enthusiasm for organized progress are less marked
than on the other. The change is not climatic or geological.
Yet the development on one side far exceeds that on the
other. The differences are not inherent in the land itself.
Mexico abounds in rich, fertile valleys, good harbors and
untouched mineral resources.

Its people have been much maligned; we hear only of
the outbreaks and raids, with hardly a word of the stu-
dents sent to European universities, of the institutions
founded to fight illiteracy. For a long period of time the
people enjoyed few rights; they did not exercise those
guaranteed to them. Nor was there any middle class. But
these conditions have changed, or are fast changing, and
the process of adjustment must take time.

Within a year one of the richest portions of Mexico,
heretofore untapped by rails, will be connected with both
the Mexican capital and with Arizona through the enter-
prise of an American railroad. This will be one of the
earliest stages of opening up a thousand miles of country.
There is much talk also of the new government’s building
highways, and within the past few months there has ac-
tually been opened a telephone exchange in the capital of
the state, which is perhaps the most undeveloped of any
in Mexico, but which is naturally rich.

A representative of the Department of Industry, Com-
merce and Labor of our southern neighbor stated at are-
cent foreign-trade convention at Seattle that within the
tropical section of his country there is more land suitable
for raising bananas than in all Central America and the West
Indies combined, more lands for sugar cane than in Hawaii
and Cuba put together, and equally large areas for pine-
apples and coffee. In the almost wholly undeveloped state
of Baja California is an enormous area with soil and
climate similar to those that have resulted in the intensive

October 17,1925

agricultural production of Southern California on this side
of the border.

The markets do not need Mexico’s vast potential produc-
tion at the present time, and perhaps, fortunately, it will
take many years to convert such potentialities into realities.

Yet one of the great adventures of the future, one of the
most constructive of achievements in which the people of
this country are sure to play a part, will be the develop-
ment of Mexico; not its exploitation in grab-bag fashion,
but the use of its resources in providing opportunities for its
people, the education of those people and the establish-
ment of such facilities as are needed to make their lives
more full and rounded.

The Crisis in British Unemployment

NEMPLOYMENT has been a social and political

specter in Great Britain since the close of the war.
Several times it has subsided, only later to reéxpand. Re-
cently unemployment has risen sharply and the situation
has been made worse, and acute, by the critical controversy
between coal operators and coal miners. Back of the
miners’ wage controversy stand the coal producers of the
Continent, who are now able to undersell British coal in the
markets of the world—and British coal mining cannot
thrive without exports. Since the threatened coal miners’
strike has been obviated by the grant of a subvention from
the state to the industry, variously estimated at from
$50,000,000 to $100,000,000 per annum—an indirect dole—
the older problem of unemployment is again on the pro-
gram for discussion. The worsening of unemployment
goes back to the return of the pound sterling to par, to the
restoration of the gold basis.

A definite, supposedly temporary, result of the return to
the gold standard, a deflation in fact and effect, has been to
raise dollar prices in Great Britain. This has the conse-
quence of driving the dollar elsewhere to make purchases.
Trade has declined, exports have been depressed and the
commerce and goods of other countries have benefited by
the circumstance. This was expected, as a temporary re-
sult, and is in accordance with theory. But the effect on
employment has been greater than was anticipated or
feared; and now both inflationists and deflationists are
apparently willing to take temporary measures designed to
relieve the situation. The measures being suggested are
interesting in themselves; they are also important in their
possible bearings on American trade.

Whatever measures of amelioration are proposed must
take account of the bank rates of New York and London.
The present rediscount rate in New York is 3.5 per cent;
in London, however, 4.5 per cent. Dear money in London,
either absolutely or relatively to New York, depresses manu-
facture and makes exportations difficult. For the moment
many British goods are dearer in the markets of the world
than the goods of competing European countries. How is
manufacture to be stimulated, trade revived? The follow-
ing proposals are being advocated:

The subsidizing of industries by paying part of the wages
out of public funds, in order to raise employment and get
rid of direct doles.

The opening of new, and expansion of old, public im-
provements that make use of labor.

Extend state loans to new industries to get them started.

Extend state loans to old but non-operative industries.

Facilitate transfer of workmen from depressed to active
industries, difficult on account of union-labor restrictions.

Stimulate emigration from the United Kingdom, prefer-
ably to the Dominions of the Empire.

Extend government support to by-product distillation
of coal.

Revert from free trade to the protective tariff.

Slow down the paying off of thedebt, lowerthesinking-fund
charges and extend the period of payment, in order to lower
taxes in the present. This applies only to the internal debt.

Each of these proposals is radical from one point of view
or another. There is little unity in any of the three parties
on any one of these proposals. Their consideration in Parlia-
ment will make political as well as economic history. Keynes
has already opened the battle with an attack on what he
ealls The Economic Consequences of Mr. Churchill.

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

33

Jax Reduction and the Public Debt

by Congress at the next session has raised

the very natural question as to how much less
can be taken from the public in the form of taxes and
still have sufficient revenue coming in to meet the running
expenses of the Government. From present indications
the annual levy safely can be reduced in the aggregate by
$350,000,000. Any proposal to enlarge this figure by any
considerable amount involves a change in the policy which
has been so satisfactorily pursued toward the retirement
of the public debt, because each year we are redeeming a
part of it with money derived from current taxation. A
slowing down in debt retirement, therefore, would release
an additional amount for tax-reduction purposes and to
that extent increase the $350,000,000 which it now seems
will be the margin available.

The very rapid rate of debt curtailment thus far has in-
cited discussion of the possibility of spreading the elimina-
tion of it over a longer period of years and giving to the
public the benefit of a lightened burden in the form of a
greater decrease in taxes than otherwise would be possible,
The agreements already entered into for the payment of a
large proportion of the sums due from foreign countries
and the prospect of securing agreements covering the re-
mainder of these debts, involving substantial annual in-
stallments of interest and principal, have injected into
the problem a factor which needs seriously to be linked
up with consideration of our own public-debt policy.

T° E prospect of certain reductions in taxation
}

By Martin B. Madden

Chairman House Appropriations Committee

There are several good reasons on either side of the
slower retirement suggestion. A rapid reduction in the
public debt brings about a reduced annual interest burden
from which the public gets a direct relief because the in-
terest is paid from moneys derived from general taxation.
Rapid reduction removes from the investment market
annually a large volume of governmental securities and
makes that much more money available for investment in
securities which are put out to obtain money for the ad-
vancement of private enterprise. Rapid reduction has a
tendency to keep the price of government securities up to
par because of the large purchases which the Government
must make each year for redemption purposes. The pur-
suance of such a policy toward the discharge of debt obli-
gations promotes a sound national credit.

A slower retirement of the debt will shift from the pres-
ent generation of taxpayers some of the burden of paying
back money that was borrowed to finance the war and
place upon future generations the duty of discharging a
part of that obligation. It will permit of a greater reduc-
tion in taxation than otherwise would be possible, and that
would be a great economic benefit to those who
now support the Government as well as those
who will support it in the future.

OLD GETAWAY

In order to get a clear picture of what we have
in the way of national debt and what we have been
doing with it, some large figures are necessary by way
of analysis. Our gross public debt on June 30, 1919,
was $25,484,000,000, and on June 30 last it stood at $20,-
516,000,000. This represents an aggregate decrease in the
six fiscal years of $4,968,000,000, or an average reduction.of
$828,000,000 a year. If this rate could be kept up, the entire
debt would disappear in approximately twenty-five years,
or by 1950. That, of course, is improbable. Any hasty
conclusion on future retirements based upon what has tran-
spired during these six years would be misleading. A study
of the five principal sources from which the $4,968,000,006
of reduction was derived will readily demonstrate that. The
largest part of this reduction was made through utilization
of Treasury surpluses amounting in all to $1,678,000,006.
The sinking fund accounted for $1,423,000,000. The reduc-
tion in the general fund of the Treasury, the cash working
balance, made $1,039,000,000 available for debt redemp-
tion. Utilization of payments of principal and interest by
foreign debtors amounted to $621,000,000. Miscellaneous
sources produced the remainder—$207,000,000.. Two of
these very large sources of decrease, the surpluses and
the reduction in the working balance, totaling together
approximately $2,750,000,000 of the approximately

(Continued on Page 218)

34 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST October 17, 1925

SHORT TURNS AND ENCORES

he synopsis for the radio vamp? Composin’ room’s yellin’

A Ballad of Imperfect Behavior

ISS MILLICENT McMURTRIE was a
stickler for propriety,

She knew the rules of etiquette from A
right down to Z
In all that sacred coterie that’s known as
High Society
No one was quite 80 proper and fas-
tidious aa ahe.

She knew the knives and forks lo use
when dining with a gentieman ;
Her conduct and deportment
were ineviladly right.
She knew exactly how to act to-
ward any sentimental man;
J ust when to ask him in the house
and when to say good night.

Her manner was impeccable toward
any maiden guest or aunt;
She knew how many cards to leave
whene’ er she paid a call;
And as for chicken salad on the menu of a
restaurant,
Mize Millicent MceMurtrie never ordered it
at ail.

One night as she was dining with the Bromleigh Parker-
Jenkinaona,
Whose lofty social status makes Mount Everest seem flat,
For their mother waa a Bromleigh and related to the Blenk-
insona,
And anyone who knows must know there's nothing more
than that.

While in her well-bred fashion she was having quite a night of
il
A lapse occurred, the sort that happens one time in a life ;
In a moment of forgetfulness—I shudder now to write of it
Miss Millicent McMurtrie cut her salad with a knife.

A deadly patior spread across the face of Parker-J enkinson ;
The second butler groened and darted headlong from the
room ;
A tear dropped from the portrait on the wall, of Major
Blenkinson 7
A silent horror filled the place—the silence of the tomb.

Then Bromieigh Parker-Jenkinson remarked with cold
austerily,

“ Some things we cannot tolerate, and you have gone too far ;

The breach that you've commitied must be treated with
severity.

Our second man wil! get your wraps, and see you to your ear.”

Then out into the dark

ORAWN BY WILLIAM FITITGERALD
If They Had Attempted a Jazz Orchestra in the
Old Days!

The tragic marks of illness line her one-time lovely face;
In rags of wretched poverty, abandoned by all dear to her,

Miss Millicent MeMurtrie pays the price of her disgrace.
—Newman Levy.

The Old Copy Desk

SCENE—Copy desk of a daily newspaper in a state
metropolis.

TIME—All day.

OLD COPYRBADER: Here's this report of the two-hundred-
and-fifty-million surplus in the U. S. Treasury. Good
Page One stuff, eh?

News Epitor: Naw! Ditch it. Mark it editorial page.
Put a one-column head on it. Nobody reads the editorial
page anyway. Here, gimme an eight-column banner an’ a
two-column head on this flapper-bandit story from V——.

O. C. R. (thirty minutes later): How about this Coolidge
speech? Gonna play it? Gotta good line in it on codpera-
tion between the European nations.

N. E.: What's eatin’ you? Cut it to a hun’erd words an’
slop it for a one-line head inside. Didja forget to send up

for it.
O. C. R. (thirty minutes later): Whatcha doin’ with
this professor’s report on conservation? Means
a thousand new settlers in Duwamish Val-
ley. Playin’ it?
N. E.: Hey! Shove that monkey story
along with a top head. Slug it Page
One—send it up in takes. Hold that
professor’s junk for time copy.
Maybe it'll make a filler for the
early tomorrow.
O. C. R. (thirty minutes later):
Maybe there’s a regular story in
this market report. Best crop
in years in the Inland Empire.
Oughta be a play in it. Lot of
good figures in it. How about it?
N. E.: Can that stuff an’ grab
the phone on this bank holdup.
Gotta make the first street with it.
Nev’ mind about that other. It’ll
go in the hold-over anyway.
O. C. R. (thirty minutes later): This
new railroad yarn’ll be a good line for the
Mazama Range folks. Hadn’t we oughta
keep that outside— huh?
N. E.: Nothin’ doin’. Push that church fight
head along. Gimme two-column drop. Take that
car smash next.
O. C. R. (thirty minutes later): Human-interest angle in
this old-woman story. Been workin’ years to put her boy
through school, and he’s honored at that scientists’ meet-
ing today. Wanna freak it up?

N. E.: You've been gettin’ barmier an’ barmier all day.
You'll be retired on a pension, filin’ an’ clippin’ exchanges,
first thing you know. Jazz up that bootleggin’ yarn a little.
Get some pep in the top o’ the head.

And so on to the end of another copy-desk day.

~—Laurence Donovan.

The Dog-Sled Mail

HE Arctic night has drawn its shroud
Over Alaska’s coasts,
And the Polar blizzard yells aloud,
And “Death! Death! Death!” it boasts.
But see! Two sturdy men and true
Challenge the vengeful gale—
Northward out of Kotzebue
Comes the United States mail!

Their parkas lashed with whipping snow,
Their faces torn with cold,
O’er wind-clean tundra, cracking floe,
Their trackless course they hold;
Point Barrow lies ten
days away;

and iey night she
staggered tear-
fully,

Aghaat ai the dis- oo
grace that stained
her once unblem-
ished neme.

Thertins of her wrecked
career crashed
down upon her
fearfully,

Alone was Miss Me-
Murtrie wiih her
sorrow and her
shame.

ides
fice.
Rea?

Through Newport and
Southampton
spreads the story
grim and sinister ;

At elubs and social
funetions where
the haunt monde
congregale,

The debutante and dow-
ager, the banker
and the minister

Diseuse in furtive
whispers Miss
MeMuririe’s ;
sorry fate. ==

ya == . 5
—. 2 7
ea

ORAWN BY DONALD MC KEE

Upon a squalid col a
woman lies with no
one near to her,

The mailman must
not fail!
No storm can hold, no
cold can stay
The U.S. Dog-Sled
Mail!

The Huskies and the
Malemutes
Strain at the reindeer
thong;
Say not that these are
soulless brutes
Who bear the mail
!
Proudly at last the
northernmost
Homes of the world
they hail—
And to Point Barrow’s
trading post
Comes the United
States Mail!

We find that it con-
sists
Of market tips for Es-
kimos

On various sucker
lists,

The Last “Nordic”

(Continued on
Page 80)

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

. CAMPBELL Soup COMPANY Bo Fs A,
CAMDEN. M.J.UL S.A:

Slow-cookec =
“te splendid food
for children|

Because beans cooked in this way—Campbell’s
Beans—are so easily digested, so wholesome and
so delicious. Here is splendidly nourishing food
for the growing child. And their tempting tomato
sauce adds to Campbell’s Beans the healthful fruit
juices with their tonic quality. Let the youngsters
eat them freely!

Slow-cooked Digestible

12 cents a can

Except in Rocky Mountain States and in Canada

36 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

Lions With the Bow an

October 17,1925

Alrrow

Traveling.

HE phetographs of lions-—-and of the
IT exne wild animals—that appear in

these articles are all genuine, taken
with a hand camera, and of beasts unin-
jured in any way. I want to proffer this statement here and
now, because, some time since, an article of mine on Danger-
ous Game was illustrated by a picture of a fat man aiming a
rifie in the general direction of a stuffed lion. It was no-
bedy's fault. I had not sent in any pictures; and the art
editor had procured this one innocently enough from a
photo news agency. Not only was the lion stuffed, but the
bold figure within a few feet of the ravening beast had not
even thought it worth while to put his hand inside the
trigger guard. I trust this explanation will reach the eyes
of the few people who did not write me on the subject.

Rut these pictures are the real thing. They are by Leslie
Simson, and we were there to see him do it. He has taken
a great many others even more beautiful, especially of
lions, when we were not with him, playing a lone hand and
taking some desperate chances.

He uses an aeroplane camera with a shoulder piece, a
pistol grip and a trigger. He shoots this contraption as he
would a gun. Such is the size of the lens tube, and the gen-
eral awesomeness of it all, that when he pulls the trigger
one rather expects a commensurate and devastating ex-
plosion. Its only drawbacks are (a) that one must get
pretty close to his object, which may be peevish; and (5)
its depth of focus is so short that the said distance must be
estimated to within about five yards or a blurred image
results. it is very difficult to estimate distance within five
yards, especially in rough
open country, and when

Note the Game in the Background

By Stewart Edward White

moved and purred—and also rattled — overcame them, and
they arose and sauntered slowly in our direction. In so
doing they became slightly separated, and Leslie managed
to insinuate the car between them.

Deprived of her liege lord, the lioness turned and moved
away, slowly at first, then at a lope, and finally disappeared
in a donga a few hundred yards distant. This relieved our
minds—we did not wish lions on both sides of us—but it
annoyed the gentleman very much, and he stopped short
and told us so in no uncertain terms. This was our chance;
we instantly became very busy. Leslie swung the flivver
sideways, and with a rapidity that enlists my admiration
wormed his way from among the steering column, two
levers and a flock of pedals, bearing his formidable camera
and muttering over to himself, “Fifty yards! Fifty
yards!”

Art slipped over the tailboard and I over the seat on the
lion side of the car, and we both placed our front sights on
his chest. We heard the camera click once, and then
again. As though the second click had been a signal, the
beast rose and made two great bounds toward us, It had
been agreed that we were to hold our fire as long as pos-
sible so the photographer would have his chance. Just as
our fingers crooked on the triggers the lion stopped and
crouched, lashing his tail and growling savagely. We could
hear Leslie swearing steadily and earnestly behind the

A Lion Roaring in Objection to Our Presence

hood of the car, and managed to sift from
his variegated remarks plain English to
the effect’ that he had not pulled the slides
from his plate holders.

There are about eleven things to do on that aeroplane
camera before she is ready to shoot, and all these have to be
done on the spot according to circumstances. Leslie had
remembered to do ten of them. I am sure that in face of a
lion as angry as this one I should—perhaps—have done
about five.

In the meantime the lion had begun looking anxiously
over his shoulder in the direction of his vanished lady love.
Finally he must have concluded that this large rhino-like
animal was not worth bothering with any further, espe-
cially as it did not do anything but stand there, and had
stopped its idiotic purring—and rattling. So he arose with
dignity and walked slowly toward the denga. Leslie
having drawn the slide, got the picture called Traveling.

Getting a Close-Up of a Lion

Y THE time we had cranked the flivver he was about 100
yards distant. We tagged after. As soon as he found
the large black creature actually had the nerve to come
along, too, he whopped around instantly and charged in our
direction. Leslie jammed on the brakes. When he saw he
had stopped us so promptly, he again crouched and made a
number of emphatic remarks. We were once more in battle
array, being careful, by staying within the outline of the
car, not to show any detached human figures to provoke a
charge home. Leslie over

the hood, shot the second

one’s sitter is inclined at
any instant to come on
over and eat one up. Let
me tell you how two of
thes® pictures — entitled
Traveling, With Game in
the Background, and Lion
Roaring in Objection to
Our Presance- were taken.

The Aere Camera

Ly ‘ was down with
fever. With Leslie at
the wheel, we ambled out
on the open plain that con-
atitutes our up slope to the
westward hills. It waa atill
early morning, with the
sun only justup. The dew
was wet as rain on the
grasses, and the game
looked slick and shining.
We had driven only about
two miles when we caught
sight of a iion and a lioness
sitting side by and
staring in our direction.
We drove slowly toward
them

side

As we drew nearer,

of these two pictures. Af-
ter giving us our instruc-
tions the lion again arose
and walked away.

This performance was
repeated three times. On
each occasion he bounded
toward us, his head up, re-
minding us a good deal of
a big farm dog turning
down the garden path to
drive away intruders.
When a lion charges seri-
ously, he drops his head as
he starts. But he was get-
ting angrier and angrier at
this persistent large black
beetle; more and more on
the hair trigger. What he
wanted was to get rid of
us, not toeatus. Possibly
he did not fancy our smell,
which was largely burned
gasoline.

Then the fourth time,
just as Leslie was brinyirg
the car to a stop, he low-
ered his head and charged
in good earnest. This, he
had concluded, was the
moment to abate the

their curiosity as to this
queer large black beast that

Lienesses Taking it Easy

(Continued on Page 82)

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

The New Cadillac

Emerges Triumphant
in Every Contrast

Paraphrasing Kipling:—“A Six is a Six and an Eight
is an Eight and never these twain shall meet.”

You cannot get Six riding and driving qualities in
a Four; nor Eight riding and driving qualities in a Six.

Nor, by the same token, can you secure Cadillac
Eight riding and driving qualities in any other car
but the new 90-degree Cadillac.

Is this mere say-so or braggadocio?

As you well know, Cadillac has never indulged
in either.

The evidence is overwhelmingly yours whenever
you care to make comparison.

Whether you drive the new Cadillac first and
the others afterward, or vice versa, is of little
consequence.

The contrast in favor of the new Cadillac will be
equally striking in either case.

Standard Line

Five-Passenger Brougham, $2995; Two-Passenger Coupe,
$3045; Four-Passenger Victoria, $3095; Five-Passenger Sedan,
$3195; Seven-Passenger Sedan, $3295; Seven- Passenger
Imperial, $3435.

Custom Line
Roadster, $3250; Touring Car, $3250; Phaeton, $3250; Five-
Passenger Coupe, $4000; Five-Passenger Sedan, $4150; Seven-
Passenger Suburban, $4285; Seven-Passenger Imperial, $4485.
All prices quoted F. O. B. Detroit. Tax to be added

The privilege of deferred payment, over a twelve
months’ period, is gladly given on any Cadillac car

DIVISION OF
GENERAL MOTORS
CORPORATION

A

3s

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

October 17,1925

FASHIONS IN FLOWERS

The Woman Florist—By Elizabeth Frazer

HE admitted to twenty-three
S summers, but she looked not a

day more than sixteen; a slim,
trim irish rosebud of a girl in a gray
tweed suit, with a curly bob, and
fresh as the massed flowers about her,
as she moved about her shop, waited
on customers, answered the tele-
phone, wrapped up fragrant sheaves
of roses, chatting with her customers
and, by a kind of sure instinct, strok-
ing them the right way. Of course,
she was selling flowers; that was her
business; but also she was selling her
personality — and she had personality
to sell. I watched herinaction, Dis-
cussion of the decorations for alunch-
eon and bridge party was under
way.
“The flowers at Mrs. B’s party
were perfectly adorable,” said the
“She told me they came
So I thought I'd have the

customer
from you
same,”

“You don't mean, of course, ab-
solutely the same?” smiled the flo
rist. “Not an exact copy?”

“Oh, no" —haatily. “IT wouldn't
want her to think I was copy
ing ”

*You don’t need to copy any
hody.”’

A amooth, flattering stroke. The
lady beamed

‘That is what my husband says.
something the same, but different
Change the color
turned toward the refrigerator.

“Of course

after all, you might drop in. You do

seem to have a gift at arrangement.”

The little object lesson over, she
departed, the girl seeing her hospita-
bly to the door.

“It’s so important,” the young
florist confessed, dropping down be-
side me on the gayly covered chintz
settee, “to get just the right color
schemes. It would ruin my reputa-
tion if I were to send out the combi-
nations some of the women think they
want. And if I made an exact dupli-
cate of Mrs. A’s decorations for Mrs.
B the fat would be in the fire.
Neither of them would come back to
me. Women love flowers, but that
doesn’t mean all of them have a gift
for charming color combinations or
effective arrangement. It’s like wear-
ing clothes; some women are natu-
rally dowdy and some are naturally
chic. So I take them gently by the
hand and lead them in the right way.
Of course,’”’ she added soberly, “‘ what
I’m really selling here is my taste.”

In the Blood

4 OW long have you been in the
business?” I inquired.
“Ever since I was born,” she

MOTO, OY MATTIC FOWARCE HEWITT, fm. ¥, €

What I meant was

you know.”

combination.” She

“How about calendulas?” suggested the customer.

“They're pretty and bright

Mix them with sweet peas.

”

Horrific combination! But the young florist did not

blink an eye
stared dreamily

into space,

Instead, she put a finger to her lip and

A New York Florist's Shop Managed by a Woman

She selected a wide, deep pottery urn, inserted a wire
screen to hold the long stems in place, added a feathery
frond of asparagus and in a moment the graceful flower
group was composed.

“Yes, that’s lovely,”’ assented the woman. “But I
haven't any urn like that.” Of course she hadn’t—which
was why the florist kept a stock on hand. “I'll take it
too,” the customer decided suddenly. “And perhaps,

laughed. “‘My mother was a florist

and seventeen members of our family
have been florists or nurserymen. So I suppose the feeling
for flowers is sort of inherited. When I was an actress my
mother used always to say to me, ‘ You'll come back to the
florist business; it’s in your blood,’”

“So you were an actress?”’

“Oh, yes, long ago, when I was young.”” She twinkled
at me. ‘I was fifteen, in high school, when a show came to
town; one of those master melodramas of all time, called

Why She Sinned.
It simply thrilled

**Inspiration!"’ F isatir
she said, laughing
**Look!’’ She
drew a bunch of
flowers from the
refrigerator, ar-
ranged them with
a few deft motions
**Tulips and
irises!”

Selling Taste

T WAS a superb

combination,
the pink-roee-
plum of the stately
iulips blending ex-
quisitely with the
tender blue-violet
of the irises, Her
customer gave an
exclamation of de-
light.

“* Fiet 36
pretty
I believe, than
Mra. B's. All
right, send them
right around.”

“Shan't I run
over and arrange
them for you? I'd
love to,”

“Oh, no; I can
manage that.”

“Then just let
me show you how
to arrange them
most effectively.
It's like wearing a
hat, you know. Se

prettier,

much depends on
how you put it on.”

OY HENRY TROTH, PHM AGEL Pena

A Lesson in the Flower Garden of the Wemen's Horticultural School, Ambier, Pennsylvania

me to pieces. And
after it was over I
took my nerve in
both hands,
marched around
back and asked the
menager to give
me a part. And
the amazing thing
is that he did. Just
a walking-on part
first, but later one
of the regular cast
had the decency
to fall ill and he
transferred me to
the role of the
beautiful vamp.
How I adored it!
I fell for it hard—
slinky red dress
and all. All this
time I was playing
truant from school
and having a hard
time to keep mam-
ma in the dark, for
I knew she’d have
fits if she knew.
Then one night a
neighbor dropped
in and spilled the
beans.

“T was wiping
dishes, in a big
hurry to get away,
when the woman
said, ‘Oh, Mrs. R,
have you seen the
new show?’ I
nearly dropped a
plate.

(Continued on

Page 60)

SS Sees
a

ry
ow —-

ee eS

-

zB

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

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CHRYSLER CORPORATION OF CANADA, LIMITED, WINDSOR, ONTARIO

All prices j. o. b. Detroit, subject to
current Federal excise tax.

40

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

October 17,1925

Me and Beany Write a Book of

eet Aug. 7,186

last nite father found
KW out that i was one of
the swill cart drivers father
sed he wasent mad xactly
but he sed it showed Lvath enterprize and perciverence
but it dident show ripe jujment on my part. he sed he
was sirprized that a feller deeling in sutch ripe articles as
is found in swill shoodent develop ripe jujment. but he
sed if i perferred ripe ockupasions he cood probably get me
@ gob as a sope maker with Peelicky Tiltons granfather or
pulling wooiskins down in Tan Lane or in a glu factery or
fertillizer factory. but peraps if i considdered my mother
and my aunt i had better try sum other ockupasion. he
sed he hoaped ij dident think he was discuriging industry.

when father talks that way i always want to laff but i
feal kind of ashaimed of what i have did. ennyway i was
glad he took it that way and wasent mad. so i asted him
what he wood like to have me do and he sed if i cood rite a
book of poims as gcod as Whitier or Long Feller or Poit
Crayon or sum of them fellers whitch has rote poitry he
wood fea! verry mutch pleeased so i told him i gess i wood
do it, i thougt it over in chirech today, they is lots of peeple
in this chirch whitch had ougt to be rote in poitry about.
there is old Hen Dow and Chipper Birly and C. Lovell 2th
and old mister Cutts and old Guss Brown and a lot of
othere.

Monday August 8, 186 Beany and i talked over the
book of poitry. Beany he says he can get a printing press
and if i will wright the poims he will print them and then
we will put them together and have Lucy Watson Beanys
sister or Cele or Keene sew them together and then we can
sel! them, so today i rote one. it is a ripper. it is about
Chipper Birly. Chipper always leeds the singing in the
Unitarial sunday school and leeds Beany out by the ear
when Beany lets the wind out of the organ or thums his
nose at sumbody or hits sumbody in the side of the head
with a spitt bali or does sum little thing like that whitch
evry feller is likely to do in chirch or sunday school.

weil Chip always wanted to get into the quire but they
wont let him because he cant sing verry well. so he is
mad, father told me to wright poitry that meens sum-
thing. he says if i rite poitry whitch dont meen ennything
nobody will read it. so i geass Chip and all the rest of the
Unitarials wili know what i meen. this is what i meen.
i drawed « picture like a Chip-
per bird with old Chips head
inatid of the birds head. this
is the picture and the poim,

The Chipper bird is a little

thing
He Chirpa and peeps bul he

cannot sing.

He wont get no chance unless

i’m a lire
To sing in the Unitarial

quire.

this is all i can wright today.
i wont show it to father until
i have got my bock done and
printed.
Tuesday August 9, 186— i rote a poim one about Pewts
father today and drawed his picture. this is his picture and
this is the poim.
a verry fine man is the father of Pewt
but he looks like time in his old paint sewt
and when dressed up he aint no bewt.
he can shin up ladders both long and tall
and paint the lass on the new town hall

{P. S. lass means the godess of jestice

with a bandige over her eys. if ennyone

out of Exeter reads this poim he mite

not know it and mite wunder what in

time a lass was doing up on the town
hall but this xplanasion maiks it all rite. it is always best
to have evrything explained]

and run like a munky over the roofs

hanging on tile with his claws and his hoofs.
but sumtimes he'll beller and holler and hoot
when he thinks after all he's the father of Pewt.

i dont blaim him mutch do you. there i think that is wirth
going into my poitry book. sumtimes i think that meens
moar than the one about Chipper. that will only get one
person mad but this will get 2. and perhaps 5 or 6. if i
wright 1 poim a day that will be enuf i think. a feller has
got to keep his he!th and strenth up and it is a grate strane
to wright poitry. so i go in swiming as often as i can from
2 to 5 times a day and fish a good deal and occationally

Poims — By Henry A. Shute

take a feller in the hine leg with a sling shot and sumtimes
a winder.

Wednesday August 10, 186— brite and fair but i dont cair
if it is. it seams to me that evry time i try to do ennything
usefull that evrybody has got a gob for me to do. today
old John Gilman landed a load of pine lims here today and
i have got to saw them. then evry 15 minits i have to go on
errands to old Tom Conners or old Charles Haleys or old
Nat Weaks. if i wasent pretty tuff i coodent stand

it. butiam tuff. aman told Keene the other day

that me and Pewt and Beany was about as tuff

boys as there is in Exeter. i am glad that sum-

body apreciates us. i dident get enny time to

wright poitry today. if i hadi coodent have went

in swiming but once. a feller has got to look out

for his helth even if he is tuff.

Thursday August 11, 186— i rote a poim

about father today. i bet he will be proud when

he reads it in my book,

this is the poim about him.

my father is the smartest man
that ever fit a fite

althoug he is not quarelsum
he’s reddy day or nite

if ennybody sasses him

he lams them in the ey

and so the rowdys in the town
they always pass him by

one day a feller fit with him
whitch dident say his prairs

{[P. S, this shows he was a bad man and had augt
to have been licked]

pa gnocked him round 2 corners

and up 8 flites of staires

this hapened in another town

and still they show today

the place where father gnocked him down
and gnocked his cheer away,

i bet if John C. Heenan

come prancing down the street

my pa wood gnock him endways

and tip him off his feet.

i also drawed his picture, this is him.

my father John C. Heenan

there i gess father will think that poitry meens sumthing
and will feal pretty good when he knows that peeople are
reeding about him. i spent the hoai afternoon in swim-
ming. a feller has to taik care of his helth.

Friday August 12, 186— rany today. last nite there was a
awful thunder storm and it raned hard all nite. this morn-
ing the gutters was all full and the river was over the
banks so this afternoon we went in swiming at Sandy bot-
tom in little river. the water was running so fast that i
swum under water most 100 yards and only stoped becaus
i run my head against a floting barril. i-was going faster
than the barril and so i overtook it. if i had sence enuf to
wate till the barri) had got further down streem i wood have
swum further. ennywayiamchampeen. this morning i rote
a poim and then went over to Beany to see how Beany

was getting along with his
printing. heisdoing pretty
well only sum of the letters
is a lot blacker than others
and sum aint so black.
Beany has left sum spaices befoar the poims where the pic-
tures are put. it is going to be sutch a awful gob to draw all
these pictures that i gess we cant maik menny books. iam
going to draw 1 set of pictures on sum paper and then hold
it up to the winder pane and trace the other pictures. if i
did not do it that way it wood taik me 1 year to do it.

today i drawed a picture of Beanys father and rote a
poim about him. this is his picture.

}

7)

&

and this is the poim.

Beanys father looks i think like Fredrick 2th the german

but i bet he can lick the king or enny of his vermin

he likes to dres up in good close like the meesly kiser

and ride a horse and pleese the eys of Mary, Jane and Liza

{[P. S. Beanys father likes to put on his calvery boots and
his blue coat and his sloughch hat and ride downtown after-
noons when peeple and women is going to by things at the
stores. he spirs his horse and pulls on the bit and maiks
him rare up and go sideways and i tell you Beanys father
looks fine. if i cood ride like Beanys father i wood do it
evry day.]

if Beanys father had his choice to drive 1 horse to heven
or 4 in hand to hel the chance is 49 to leven

he’d drive the 4 in hand to hel and woodent bat a ey
insted of driving 1 to heven where he dont have to fry.

[P. S. of coarse a good unitarial like me dont believe in hel
so Beanys father when he reeds this wont get mad. to bat
an ey meens to wink, when i stay in swiming two long i
keep winking fast. father calls it batting my eyes. he says
if i dont stop batting my eys he will bat me.]

Saterday August 13, 186— i tell you it seams good to be
litrary and wrighting a book of poitry instid of collecting
swill in a swill cart and having evrybody hold his nose and
holler pew evry time you come ennywhere neer him. it isa
grate releef to mei can tell you. of coarse it is grate to be a
printer like Beany only i have to be cairful to corect
Beanys speling. 1 thing a litrary feller has got to be cairful
about and that is his speling and his grammer. so i am
always cairful only today i found that Beany had neerly
spoiled my poim on Chipper by his speling quire choir.
who ever herd of enny sutch way of speling it. the idea of
having choir rime with lire. ennyway Beany sed choir was
rite and i sed he was a lire and we neerly had a fite. i told
him that i rote the poim and if he wanted to do the printing
he had got to print the poim just as i had rote it. so bimeby
Beany sed all rite if i wanted it to go that way i cood have
it my way only i spelt it rong. that is jest like Beany. he is
the obstinaitest feller i ever see. he wont give in and say he
is rong even when he knows he is rong. i am glad i am not
obstinait as Beany. but then i never was. i gess i am difer-
ant from Beany i rote 1 poim today. it has got a grate
morral in it. father sed once that a wrighter had aught to
teech a lesson with evrything he rote. how he come to say
this was because the minister sed that eech and evry virse
in the bible pointed a morral. i asted father what he ment
and father he sed to point a morral ment to teech a lesson
and that evrybody whitch rote annything had aught to
teech a leson. so in this poim i have tride to teech a leson.

(Continued on Page 42)

os

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 41

> Woe: Begs

r rt eo
— a nation-wide SCTOICE NE Esesseepenemnesin
a

SS

=

+

a

-

te

important of the by-products. Millions of
pounds are prepared for market annually
by Swift & Company.
1 The pelts are first thoroughly . AIOE REE TENSEI ELE nr
brushed and washed under

high water pressure in “scrub-
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Here the wool is “‘ pulled” by

hand from the pelts.
Experienced graders separate
the wool into about sixty
different grades.

Ce — .

RO PA POE EAE ER ATE We

Excess moisture is then

removed by the driers which
have a capacity of 1200 pounds
of wool an hour.

fleecy white blankets and fine woolen

textiles with Swift & Company.
Wool is one of the important by-products
of the meat business.

Sheep and lambs come to market with
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Pree you have never associated

The wool is next tested for

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exactly the right amount of mois-
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The wool is baled for ship-
ment. Its grading has been
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pelts, without injuring the fibres. “Pulled
wool” is an important part of the nation’s
wool supply.

The sheep-skins are sold to tanners,
who make leather that goes into shoe
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The most efficient preparation and grad-
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Swift & Company

Founded 1868

Owned by more than 47,000 shareholders

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

Centinued from Page 40)

it is two lait to teech Bill Simpson the lesson because his
wife has went. but it may come in handy if Bill shood get
another wife.

this poim is about Bill Simpson and his wife. she run
away with another feller. the men think it is all Bills falt,
sum of the women think it is all her falt.

i have drawed their pictures. here they are

she had set neer me they wood have sed i done it. they
always say so if they can wether i am to blaim or not. it
was lucky for Beany that he sat behine the organ and
lucky for Pewt that he was to home. it is dredful to be so
suspected. but after they have read my book of poims
they will know i am different from what i was. i think my
poims will have a good effeck on Beany but i gess Pewt is
two far gone.

Gy » Da Ue

1 Ay)jum
wy) Gye

$d

and this is the poim

Bill Simpsons wife has ran away
with handeum Charly Grout

she lived with Bill jeat seven years
and then ahe liled out

Bill weed to drink and sware and file
and stay in the saloona

while Mary wirked at washtub nile
and mornings eves and noons

and fernished Bill spondulicks

with whitch to by good close

iP. S. spondulicks is money whitch I supose evrybody
knows but i am not sure.

and spend his time in barrooms and circusses and shows
until ahe lost her pacience and run away from him

and Bill is hunting everywhere to tare her lim from lim
taint no use William, taint no use

to hunt for her you sec

Jor if you hadent been a goose

she woodent had to flea

iP. 8. Bill wont be mad at this i know but if i had called
Bill what father called him instid of goose he mite have
heen mad, father calied Bill a dam brute and sed he de-
served to loose her but i dident want to wright that down
and maik him feal enny wirse than he does. a feller had
aught to be verry cairful not to say or to wright ennything
that will bring enny fellers gray hairs in sorrow to the
grave or the blush of shaim to his cheak unless it is nec-
essary to teech him @ leson and i gess Bill has lerned his.

there is a song my aunt Sarah sings sumtimes when it is
growing dark and she is rocking the baby. Aunt Sarah will
start it and then Keene will chip in and sing trebble and
Cele will chip in with the alto and if father is there he will
chip in with the base. it sounds prety fine i can tell you.
but it is the wirds i am wrighting about. these are them.

chide mildly the earring
kind language indeers
greef folows the sinfull
add not to their leers

so when i am wrighting poims about peeple i always try
not to hirt their fealings and to say as mutch good about
them as possible. most literary men is like that.

this afternoon i swum from the willows whitch is haff
way up to the eddy clear down to the gravel, that is a mile.
Pewt rew a boat beside me so if i got cramps i woodent
drownd, a feller has got to taik care of his helth you
know,

Sunday August 14, 186 sunday today and brite and
fair. we all had to go to church and sunday school today.
it wasent rite. the Unitarials always have a vacasion the
last 3 weaks of August. but this time there was a minister
visiting old mister Pepperill and of coarse he had to show
off by getting him to preech and of coarse we had to go.
well old Pepperill got his pay for it becaus Fanny Pepperill
got a snapping bugg down her back and had highsterics
and screemed and cried and laffed and tride to claw down
her back and maid a awful time and they had to taik her
out into the vestry and catch the bugg. i wanted to go in
and see them catch it but they shet the door and father
yanked me back into the phew. it was lots of fun while it
lasted. i am glad she set en the other side of the church. if

i dident wright enny poim today. it is a grate strane on
a feller and i have got to taik cair of my helth you know.
so me and Beany put our sling shots in our pockets and took
along waulk. we dident see ennydogs butwe landed on 2 or3
cats and one horse whitch a old farmer was driving and he
waiked up lifely. the old farmer rapped the webbings
round his hands and pulled good befoar he cood stop him.
he dident see us and dident know what had hit his horse
and i herd him tell his wife that he gessed a hornet had
stang him.

i gess we hadent aught to have did it but a feller has got
to have sum fun. he cant wirk all the time.

Monday August 15, 186— it is brite and fair and hot as
time. i was afraid i coodent wright mutch today but i
wirked hard to wright a poim on old Francis our grammer
teecher and it is verry hard to wright kind things of a man
whitch has licked you so many times for not doing enny-
thing bad. jest throwing spitt balls and putting pins in
feilers seets and tacks whitch stand up better than pins do.
that is if they has big heads. and sumtimes putting a field
mouse in a girls desk or a spider or a snaping bugg down a
fellers back or sum little thing like that whitch hadent
aught to get ennyone licked and is only did to maik fun
but teechers seam to think the only fun in achool is in lick-
ing time out of the fellers and old Francis is one of that
kind.

October 17,1925

and maik him crawl strait throug a chair
and while he’s getting clear

to grab a hard round ruler up

and whang him on his rear

and pick him up and slam him down
and rumple up his hair

by pulling handfulls of it out

and leeving nothing there

and when you find the rulers beat
has blistered him behind

to set him down hard in his seet
is not xackly kind

i’d hait to think i’d spoilt the fun

of fellers and their sisters

by slamming them and lamming them
and busting of their blisters

and when i die i hoap that i
can go to my reward

without the feer of going cleer
lo where there aint no God.

there i gess old Francis cant find enny falt with that be-
cause evry wird is true and father sed one time truth is
mity and will prevale. peraps it aint too lait for old Francis
to learn a leson. it seams to me that a teecher had augt to
be able to learn lesons as well as to teech them. of coarse if
we fellers cood treet him the way he treets us we cood
teech him. he wood have to lern or get his head gnocked
off.

ennyway that is one of the best poims i have rote and i
think it will attrack a grate deal of attension when it comes
out in my book.

even if i dont maik a grate deel of money i shall be verry
famus. this afternoon me and Potter Goram went fishing.
we took our supper and a lantern and after dark we fished
for hornpout until nine oh clock. we cought 19 good ones.
i cought 7 and Potter cought 12. I got pricked with their
horns moar than Potter did. so i beat him that way. we
had a fine time and it done me a lot of good. i was prety
neerly xausted from working so hard on my poim and it
was a grate releef to catch sum fish. father skined the horn-
pout and pricked his thum once and swore. he had sum
for his brekfast befoar he went to Boston. it was a very
bizzy day.
Tuesday August 16, 186— another fine day fair but not
verry brite. that is to say it is jest clowdy enuf so the sun
dont shine. it is a grate day to go fishing but a feller whitch
is wrighting a book cant go whenever he wants to like most
fellers but must wirk. i wish mother felt that way. if she
did i shoodent have to go on so menny darn errands. it is
terible to be called and maid to go a haff mile for 2 cents

Ly Mt uy Ny

Vv 4) WA y “ie
bat Myf Wy.

yy j/ a
Yiyyy , MU Me f
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Ly aii ti , LWiblggpp itd
p aT a oes
K -z Me. Lpwi 3 U-

but in spite of that i rote kindly but firmly about him.
to my teecher Mister Francis

speek kindly it is better far

to rule by love than feer

than shaik a fellers daylites out
or paist him on the ear

it aint jest rite when on his slate
a feller cannot bound

a meesley old New England State
to snatch him from the ground

wirth of yeest just when i have been trying to get a rime for
Evelyn and have almost got one and when I have got back
i find i have forgot it.

today i rote a lament about old deakon Stebbins and old
Miss Evelyn Pearson. old Deakon is most 1 hundred years
old and Evelyn says she is only about 45. evrybody says
she is 80. so she spends most of her time hiding when she
sees the old deakon coming. she says if the deakon dident
smell so of pigs she woodent mind so mutch. but she prefers
Ben Allison. she says peraps Ben hasent got so mutch
mony but on the other hand he isnt haff as old. i have
drawed pictures of them boath.

(Continued on Page 107)

De - ce
-

———— -

rol

—

_— ———-

a

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

BIN al eRe? PMI

_—

al

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It is manufactured by Congoleum-
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one guilty of this practice.

If you want the genuine, ask for
it by the registered trade-
mark name “Congoleum”
and look for the Gold Seal

on the goods you buy.

On the floor is shown
Congoleum Rug No. 379

“I'd like to have

a nice rug like that, some day!

y??

_

Everybody has an admiring word for a_ fore a few easy rubs
fresh, sunny-colored Congoleum Go/d Seal of adampmoporcloth “SS
Rug. That’s one of the many advantages “=
of getting Congoleum—the floor-covering Economy that’s Supreme “©
that carries the Gold Seal pledge of “‘ Satis-

faction Guaranteed or Your Money Back.” With the Gold Seal as your guide you _ ee

are able to pick out not only rugs that are No. 3296
There’s an individual charm and beauty _ beautiful, but rugs whose durability has won ;
to Congoleum Rug patterns that is not hecahacad: eeu the most conservative
duplicated in any other low-priced floor- housewives. There is only one Congoleum,
covering. And you'll find an unusually you know. And it’s the known depend-
attractive variety of designs and colors ability at such moderate prices that makes
suitable for all parts of the house—from Congoleum Rugs so economical. In no
kitchen or porch to dainty guest room. other sanitary floor-covering can you find
such value for so little money.
:

They’re So Easily Cleaned Congoleum Gold Seal Rugs are made in

all the popular sizes from small mats to

Join the legions of housewives whom ‘
nine by fifteen foot rugs.

sturdy, waterproof Congoleum Rugs have

relieved from the drudgery of floor-scrub- Mies ; Pattern
bing and rug-beating. Dirt, grease, and 4.) Voncoent tage 3 nee No, 538
spilled things vanish from the smooth, San Francisey Atlanta Minneapolis — Dallas Pittsburgh

New Orleans Cleveland London Paris Rio de Janeiro

waterproof surface of Congoleum Rugs be- In Canada—Congoleum Canada Limited, Montreal

Free Booklet
“Things Every Woman Should
Know About Congoleum Rugs,” an

interesting booklet by Anne Lewis

arc'us nat orF

Pierce, shows all the patterns in

GOLD Rt G ) their actual full colors. It-will gladly 4s agree
SEAL be sent to you free upon request. ta

ad

j
ve

pteinink it at
oF Hak

our faithful Ford —

SATURDAY EVENING POST

How Mobiloil “E” makes it serve you even better

—and at even less cost

PTCHE clutch and transmission of your Ford
are unique. They are lubricated by the same
oil that supplies lubrication for your engine.

The Ford multiple disc clutch runs “wet”

revolving in a continuous bath of oil. It is essen-
tial that the clutch give smooth, positive, quick
engagement and a positive and instantaneous
release,

Oils heavier than Mobiloil “E”
“oil drag" between the clutch plates, particularly
in cold weather. The car will “creep” forward,
when the engine is started, throwing undue strain
on the battery and starting motor.

may cause an

In your Ford you have a planetary transmission
employing three c/ose-fitting sleeves. Here a heavy
It cannot thor-
oughly distribute into the sleeves, and lubricate

oil is at an extreme disadvantage.

both sleeves and bearings.

In its study of the Ford en-

gagement and release. There is no “creeping”, no
“slipping”. Full protection is assured at all times
and under all conditions.

And just as Mobiloil “E” is superior for your
clutch and transmission, it is equally superior for
your entire Ford engine. Its use assures full power
day in and day out, marked freedom from carbon,
and surprisingly low repair bills.

For your “Economy” car, you need the added

economy of Mobiloil “E

The dealer who puts service FIRST
There is a dealer in your section who is putting
He displays the sign
shown at the bottom of this page. Year after year,

himself out to serve you.

he is drawing around himself a circle of steady,
satisfied customers. His customers have found by
actual experience that Mobiloil
“E”’ is the cheapest oil for Fords
by the mile and by the year.

gine, which dates back to the
first Ford car, the Mobiloil
Board of Engineers has covered
carefully and_ scientifically the
clutch and transmission needs.
Mobiloil “E”, the product of
their knowledge and experience,
squarely meets these needs.
Mobiloil “EE.” gives smooth, pos-
itive and immediate clutch en-

This dealer accepts no substi-
tute for experience. He knows
that no Ford lubricating oil has
behind it such specialized expe-
rience in lubrication as Mobiloil
“E”. Vacuum Oil Company,
branches in principal cities. Ad-
dress: New York, Chicago, or
Kansas City.

The guide sign to Ford long life

October 17,1925

MAKE THIS CHART
YOUR GUIDE

HE correct grades of Gargoyle Mobiloil for
engine lubrication of prominent passenger
cars are specified below.
The grades of Gargoyle Mobiloil are indicated
by the letters shown below. “Arc” means
Gargoyle Mobiloil Arctic.
Follow winter recommendations when temper-
atures from 32° F (freezing) to 0° F (zero) prevail.
Below zero use Gargoyle Mobiloil Arctic (except
Ford Cars, use Gargoyle Mobiloil “ E’’)

If your car is not listed here, see the complete
Chart at your dealer's.

1925

Summer

Winter

Arc.|/

AIA

| Are Arc
A |Are

Are Are Are. Are
|

A /Arc.jArc.\Arc.
A jAre| A jAre
E:E/JE;E
BB | BB BB| BB
A |Arc.jArc.|Arc.
A \Are| A |Ate
A \Are.| A jAre.
Arc jAre Are. Are.
A\AIAIA

dd
=
asa

-

Oakland...... AJA,
Oldsmobile 4. . . ee A jAre| A |Are
Oldsmobile 6... } | AIA
Overland ..... Y d e | A \Are} A /Are.
Packard 8 . J A |Are in
“ (other mod's.) / A A|AIAIA
Reo Arc. A |Arc| A jAre
Rickenbacker 6. . Arc.j\Are JArc.Are.
Rickenbacker 8 . J A | } . | ip
Star... } t Are |Arc }
Studebaker. ... J A \A A \Are.| A |Are
Willys-Knight 4. . B |Arc.| B Arc.
Willys-Knight 6. ae [ és

How to buy

From Bulk 30c—3oc is the fair retail price for
single quarts of genuine Mobiloil from the
barrel or pump.

For Touring Convenience—the sealed 1-quart
can is ideal for touring or emergencies, Carry
2 or 3 under the seat of your car.

For You; Home Garage—the s-gallon or 1-gallon
sealed cans—or 15-, 30-, or §5-gallon steel
drums with convenient faucets,

All prices slightly higher in Southwestern,

Mountain and Pacific Coast States.

VACUUM OTL COM PAN Y

et Cue ne ee. 98

==

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 45

The South American Melting Pot

By ISAAC F. MARCOSSON

and especially the

Sn AMERICA
east coast, is the

people do not know is
that though there is a
rigid timitation on im-

prize shatterer of illu-
sions. The Yankee who
goes there for the first
time with the usual line
of biggest-and-best talk
about the preéminence
of his native land gets
the surprise of his life.
Not only is the magnif-
icence of domain and
distance impressive,
but the array of self-
made men risen from
poverty to plutocracy
vies with the North
American gallery of
Fords and Rockefellers
in romance and
achievement, The
women are just as
smartly dressed and at-
tractive as those of our
great centers. Sky-
scrapers dominate all
the big cities. There is
a larger hint of Paris
in Buenos Aires than
in New York.
Greatest of all rev-
elations) however, is
that South America,
and not the United
States, is the real melt-
ing pot. The blending
of bloods is on a larger
and more intensive
scale than in any other
part of the world, pro-

migration into the
United States from
Europe, Asia and
Africa, no ban is im-
posed on native-born
SouthAmericans. They
can come in at will. As
soon as we launched
our quota program,
many European coun-
tries, especially Italy,
immediately saw a
grand and glorious op-
portunity to beat the
gate at Ellis Island.
Thousands of Italians
swarmed to Brazil and
Argentina, and became
naturalized citizens,ex-
pecting to enter Uncie
Sam's confines as Sout):
American subjects.

Underpeopled

R a brief time
these naturalized
Brazilians or Argen-
tinians were able to get
into the United States
under a clause which
gave them entry if they
had resided in South
America for five years.
They became so nu-
merous that the reguia-
tion was changed. Now
only those native to

viding the most fasci-
nating and, in many
respects, the most
colorful and diverting of all themes south of Panama.

Nowhere is the tide of immigration so varied or assimi-
lative as that which streams into Brazil and Argentina.
With the exception of the German and the Japanese, the
newcomer, once he decides to stay, becomes part and parcel
of the life of the country he invades. By the time the
second generation is reached he is a Brazilian, an Argentin-
ian or a Chilean, as the case may be. There are few
hyphenated Soyth Americans.

Immigrants From Everywhere

ECULIAR interest attaches to this absorbing subject
because of our restrictions on immigration. The Italian,
whose eyes for years were focused so yearningly upon
North American shores, now sets his compass for an east-
coast South American republic.
It means that various countries,

—- —

COPYRIGHT BY THE MINISTRY OF AGRICULTURE, ARGENTINA

. The Immigrant Station at Buenos Aires. A Model of its Kind

of human patchwork, which is as picturesque as it is
interesting.

So many-sided is immigration into South America that
it is difficult to know where or how to begin the narrative.
Half a dozen articles could be devoted to the subject.
The Italian in Brazil and Argentina, for example, would
make a paper packed with striking detail. It would show
how penniless lads from the Lombardy hills have become
merchant and manufacturing princes; how Italians
dominate the city of Sio Paulo, and are as numerous in
Buenos Aires as in their own Milan. The German, whose
impress is almost equally strong commercially, has already
been dealt with, although he will appear intermittently
in the panorama now to be unfolded.

Before we begin, it may be well to dispose of one matter
which automatically demands attention. What most

South America can
avail themselves of the
non quota immunity.
No matter where he has been naturalized, the immigrant
is subject to the restrictions applying to the country of
his birth.

First let us visualize the general South American situa-
tion in its relation to immigration. Many of the republics,
notably Brazil anc Argentina, are very much in the same
position that the United States was in at the conclusion of
the Civil War. With these countries today, as with us in
those perilous later sixties, the crying need is for popula-
tion to open up the virgin lands,

Take the case of Argentina. Her population is about
10,000,000, yet she is capable of taking care of ten times
this number. There is not now, nor has there been in
recent times, anything like the westward migration of our
people, first across the Alleghanies into the vast agricul-
tural regions of the Mississippi Valley, and later into

the prairies beyond. Nor has
Argentina the impetus or the

Argentina in particular, are fac-
ing the identical problem that
was ours before the quota set up
the bars. Moreover, Argentina
is meeting the emergency with a
selective system that is a model
of efficiency.

Rich in human interest is this
spectacle of the forging of new
races beyond the equator. It
touches the tragic aspiration of
the Russian exile, fled from the
ruthless tyranny of Bolshevism.
It links the Jewish colonist with
the age-old dream to revive the
agrarian glories of the days of
Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. It
ties up the Japanese with the
same issue that strained our re-
lations with Nippon. It is a far-
away bond with the tragedies
of reconstruction in Dixie Land.
It joins the Welsh and the Scotch
with the pastoral life of Pata-
gonia. It has created a new
empire of opportunity for the
German, the Slav, the Spaniard,

advantages that drove our
homesteaders toward the setting
sun.

We had railroads, like the
Union Pacific, that pushed the
steel rail on in the face of sav-
age Indian hordes and hardships
that would have daunted a less
heroic breed. While coloniza
tion has been carried on in Ar-
gentina, it savors in the main of
a glorified system of land selling
and has not inspired the kind of
individual conquest that made
our Western desert bloom.

Linked with this need of pop-
ulation is a corollary that must
be explained. Although the birth
rate in some South American
countries is almost abnormally
high— in the Argentine it is 42.6,
and in Chile and Paraguay, 37
to the thousand—the death rate
is on the same scale, Infant
mortality in countries like Peru
is appalling. It is due, of course,
to the lack of sanitation and to
the widespread ignorance. Here

the Turk, the Italian and the
Syrian. All lands and lineages
contribute to this amazing piece

Villa Americana, the Colony Established by Confederate Soidiers From

the American South

you have another need for im-
migration.

46 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

The second big fact is that South America—and again I
must particularize with Brazil and Argentina—is the next
great reservoir for world immigration, It is only a ques-
tion of a few decades when the United States will reach the
point of saturation. Heneeforth the trend is bound to be in
the direction of Latin America, although Australia, New
Zealand, South Africa, Rhodesia and Canada will be com-
petitors for a time.

These last-named countries will not, however, attract
the Latin, who, figuratively, wants his vine and fig tree to
grow under sunny skies. It means that before many years
pags a vast movement of the white race toward the tropics
will be under way.

The Trek to South America

TOR will the Caucasian be alone in this mighty trek.

' Congested Japan is reaching out for new worlds to set-
tle. When she has overflowed in Manchuria and Korea she
will turn to South America. It is the inevitable goal of her
swarming millions, because other areas are barred. The
prejudice against the Japanese is strong in Australia. We
have banned them as immigrants from our midst, and the
Philippines will offer no haven. Like the Latin, the Jap
seeks a congen-
ial clime.
This is why he
concentrated
on California
and why, event-
ually, South
America will be
his objective.

The persist-
ent influx of
Japanese into
some parts of
South America,
especially
Peru, is al-
ready a prob-
lem, Thereare
40,000 Nippon-
ese in Brazil
alone, and
more than half
as many in
Peru and Ar-
gentina.

Let us ge‘
the larger pic-
ture. The drift
of foreign im-
migration into
South America has been slightest in the northern, western
and inland countries. The biggest comparatively recent
alien movement into Peru has been Oriental in origin,
with the result that today there are 55,000 Chinese and
Japanese there. The
Chinese were imported

PHO TG, OY Maver
Praneeseo Materasse, the Italian
Immigrant Whe Be:ame The Stinnes
ef Seuth .dmerica

Octeber 17,1925

from the Baltic States and Cen-

South American im-
migration. The
huge continent to
the south of us
seems to be the
favorite, in fact,
the only place in
the world where the
Moslem seems to
segregate in any-
thing like numbers.
While we mainly
know the Turks as
rug peddlers or ciga-
rette makers, coun-
tries like Brazil,
Argentinaand Chile
feel their commer-
cial impress. They
operate large im-
port and export es-
tablishments and
are identified with
the productive life
of communities.
There are more than
92,000 Turks in Ar-
gentina alone. As
in Brazil, they have
their mosques and
coffeehouses. There
has also been an ef-

tral Europe is under way.

Now that we are ready to take
up the specific countries, Argen-
tina must have priority for many
reasons. Not only has she an
immigration problem that works
both ways—she needs people, and
at the same time must carefully
censor all arrivals—but her con-
trol of the influx of foreigners is
so highly organized that it may
well be employed as a model for
all other lands. Even the United
States, with decades of experi-
ence with this vital issue, can
learn something from her.

To comprehend fully what Ar-
gentina is up against, we must
go back a few years. The major
movement of Europeans began
about 1870 and continued, al-
most without interruption, until
1914. I have already indicated
the figures. The war naturally
checked immigration, but it was
resumed on a smaller scale after
the Armistice. When our restric-
tive measures became operative,
immigration was again stimu-
lated because, as you have been
told, thousands of Italians

PHOTO, BY ELLIOTT &@ FRY, LTO.
Augustin Edwards,
Great Britain.

fective influx of
Syrians into both
Argentina and
Brazil.

The major immigration movement has been to the east
coast. Between 1820 and.1922, Brazil received 3,648,274
immigrants, of whom 1,378,876 were Italians anc 1,021,-
277 Portuguese. The list also included, in varying propor-
tions, Germans, Russians, Austrians, Syrians, Turks,
French, British, Irish, Swiss, Swedes, Belgians and Jap-
anese,

The Argentine record surpasses that of Brazil. From
1857 up to 1920, more than 5,000,000 immigrants came in,
chiefly from Southern and Central Europe and from Asia
Minor. Of this number half were Italians. While many
have returned to their homes, more than 2,000,000 remain
in the country, comprising over one-fifth of the entire
population. Argentina, by the way, has been extremely
iortunate in her type of Italian immigrant, because most
of them are from the northern section.

During 1923, 212,485 immigrants registered at Buenos
Aires, representing sixty-nine nationalities from every con-
tinent. Italians, Spaniards, Germans and Poles headed the
list, but there were also many Czecho-Slovaks, Jugo-
Slavs, Ukrainians, Lithuanians, Letts and Esthonians.
This means that a new movement into South America

Pormer Chilean Ambassador to
He ta the Great-Grandson of a Scotch
Surgeon Who Settled in Chile

thought they could make their
way into the United States by
becoming naturalized Argentine
subjects.

At this point it may be well to emphasize two factors
that have combined to prevent a permanent large popula-
tion in Argentina. One is that while the foreigner who takes
root in the country really becomes assimilated, he is almost
offset by his colleague who makes a stake and then goes
home. This applies to persons of high and low degree of
fortune. To illustrate: For years the Bravos, who came
out from Spain many years ago, were leaders in the Ar-
gentine leather trade and rolled up a large fortune. In 1923
they returned to Barcelona, where they reéntered business,
but on a smaller scale. They could not resist the instinct
to go back. Between 1905 and 1924, 1,077,755 Spaniards
came into Argentina, while 343,664 departed.

Round Trip Immigrants

HE largest evacuation was with the Italians. During
the same period 884,746 entered Argentina and 500,809
left. Between 1915 and 1923, the difference between in-
coming and outgoing Italians was smaller because, while
253,962 arrived, 171,154 went home. The record of the
Spaniards was more balanced, since 266,400 immigrated,
and 249,363 sailed

away. I cite these fig-

in the early fifties to
work on the guano
islands end the sugar
plantations. They in-
creased so rapidly
many married indi-
ane ~—that since 1908
they have been forbid-
den to enter.

Chile, in recent
years, has ceased to at-
tract immigration on
anything like a preten-
tious acale, but she can
well rest on her past
performance. In the
preceding article I
showed how the Ger-
mans control consid-
erable sections in the
south, and how their
influence has affected
the whole country. Nor
are the Spaniards, Ital-
jana and French far
behind

You can get some
idea of the racial inter-
mixture in Chile when
I say that there are ex:
actly forty different
nationalities repre-
sented, including 6000
Turks.

This reference tu the
Turks recalla one of the

Th}

~
idl

a Be ee bd
uS i -/-

ures to show that while
immigration to Argen-
tina gets into fairly
large figures, the losses
are almost correspond-
ingly great.

We have the same
state of affairs in the
United States, but
while we can afford to
lese the Italian who
returns to die on a tiny
plot of ground at or
near his birthplace, Ar-
gentina cannot. Thus
during the ten years
since 1914 the foreign-
ers who have arrived in
Argentina have
searcely covered the
number of those who
heeded the call of the
fatherland. There were
2,400,000 aliens in the
republic in 1914, and
exactly the same num-
ber on January thirty-
first of this year.

The second factor
grows out of the so-
called swallow immi-
gration. Every year
thousands of Italians,
after sowing and har-
vesting their own crops,
sail for Argentina and

many distinct details
in connection with

COPYRIGHT OY THE MINISTRY OF AGMOUL TURE OF ARGENTINA

A Scene at the Immigration Hotei at Buenos Aires

(Continued on
Page 188)

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

A ’ ag tt) a)
‘acy
: Hllaidr vivre
Wht e | T ‘

The Oakland Harmonic Balancer
This new and exclusive feature imparts an unmatched freedom from vibration to the

Oakland Six engine, and in a manner that is simplicity itself. Torsional vibration in any A. New Galland Six ey Si, » Six-cylinder en
automobile engine is caused by the twist of the crankshaft under repeated piston impulses. lolegee—pallerads oe} ae >
The Harmonic Balancer—built into the Oakland crankshaft— 1 twist . Toning ewhrotion periods
pe | a Dalancer—built into the Oakland cran shaft—exerts an equal twist smooth at all speeds, having vibrati
ing force in the opposite direction, which counteracts the twist of the ponchos de thus stop- bas =
{ ping vibration at its source. This means new thrills of motoring pleasure, longer car life. Readings taken with the crankshaft indicator,
a device for measuring torsional vibration,

With sales of the new Oakland Six mounting daily to new high
levels, Oakland pauses to reaffirm this pledge—Under no circum-
stances will Oakland depart from the ideals and policies which are
| winning and holding nation-wide good will; under no circumstances
will there be the slightest deviation from Oakland standards.
Now and always will Oakland take time to build each car right.

Roadster Touring Coach Landau Coupe Sedan Landau Sedan
(Old Price $1095) (Old Price $1095) (Old Price $1215) (Old Price $1295 ) (Old Price $1545) (Old Price $1645)

All prices at factory ~ — General Motors Time Payment Rates, heretofore the lowest in the industry,
have been made still lower. You now save as much as $40 to $60 in your time payment costs

WINNING AND HOLDING ‘GOOD WILL

OAKLAND SIX]

Rinsnics 5. Wr ese ine ae a ae Gee oe aot ee

THE SATURDAY

UMAN NATURE AND GEMS

7 "so may think that my occupa-

tion is duil and uninteresting, s
that it is lacking in the dramatic

and that each day is simply a weari-

some round of petty detail.

I do not agree with you. My work
has elements of imagination, high ro-
mance, sentiment, superstition and
psychology, From my position behind
the counter in one of the famous jewelry
shops of the world I have observed passing a steady stream
of the rich and the poor, the educated and the ignorant, the
generous and the seifish.

Shakspere'’s Seven Ages have stopped before my counter,
each age with different demands to be satisfied. Baby cups
for the infant, engagement rings for the youth, medals for
the soldier and necklaces bought by the lean and slippered
pantaloon for his daughter, or the daughter of someone
elge, are but a few of the gifts I have sold in the thirty-
seven years that I have been here.

At this moment it may be that some tourist in the writ-
ing room at Shepheard’s Hotel in Cairo, with a fountain
pen that I sold him, is scribbling a postcard with the words:
“Having a delightful time. Wish you were here. X shows
my window.”

Or it may be that an American mining engineer, within
sound of the temple bells in the old Moulmein pagoda on
the road to Mandalay is offering a cigarette to a Burma
maid from a case that was bought in this store.

Lessons Learned Behind the Counter

T IS not dignified to be a salesman, That is what some

of my fashionable friends have told me. They have even
called me, superciliously, a shopkeeper and, in moments
of irascibility, a counter-jumper. That was before the war.
Great changes have taken place since then. I believe that
people are not so snobbish as they were.

To me salesmanship has been fascinating, educational
and refining. When in 1888 I started with the same firm
that I am with today, I was uncouth. I did not know how
to dress. My tousled hair was a constant source of jest.

TLLUSTRATEDO

“Whe Put This Diamond on My Table?" Her Father Exciaimed

the Pollowing Day as He Ware Dressing

As Told to William O. Trapp

COLEMAN

ar R. PALLEN

My knowledge of grammar would not have made Lindley
Murray jealous.

Fortunately for me, the firm was made up of broad-
minded gentlemen who saw some vein of ability worth
while developing. I believe I have justified their hopes.
Since the day I entered the firm’s employ I have kept an
account book of my sales, and this morning I leoked it
over and found that my sales totaled $6,000,000, which is
not so bad for a farmer's son.

These reminiscences may have some value for a youth
of today who is in the same position that I was. The first
lesson I learned was that I knew little about either jewelry
or salesmanship. Willing to learn, however, I was eager to
take instruction from any source or any person, even from
a little child.

I soon realized that I must study my customers and
that a different appeal had to be made to each one if I
expected to sell any goods. To one I might talk a great
deal. To another I found that comparative silence was
better. I discovered it wise never to be too assertive.
Above all, I never contradicted. Some customers like to
lead. Others like to be led.

Memory for the names of my customers I found most
useful. Nothing pleases a customer more than to be ap-
proached deferentially and to be called by name. Then I
learned, too, the value of keeping faith, giving honest
advice and honest value. You may say that is trite, that
you knew it long ago. I have two pieces of merchandise for
sale. One is new and the other passé. I may be able to sell
the second article, but the customer learns that the article
he bought is not modern and he becomes dissatisfied, not
only with me but with the store as well. A salesman serves

EVENING POST

October 17,1925

his employer and himself best by con-
sidering the customer’s interest first.

Keeping promises seems to have
gone out of fashion in some quarters,
but it has not in our store. If I make a
promise I strive with might and main to keep it. Sometimes
that may prove impossible because of some unlooked-for
happening. In that case I anticipate my customer’s dis-
satisfaction and disappointment either by writing him or
by telephoning him, regretfully explaining the delay.

Enough of that. I spoke a moment ago of superstitions.
You would be surprised at the extent of those irrational
beliefs in this business. Sometimes they are tragic; some-
times amusing.

The Opal Superstition

NE of our customers, a young man, was fond of opals.

His love for them verged on mental unsoundness. He
became engaged to a charming girl. The day before the
wedding he bought from me a magnificent opal necklace
for a bridal gift. Three hours before the ceremony he died
in a convulsion.

Another customer, a man of large wealth, purchased two
exquisite Oriental pearl necklaces for his wife and, later, a
handsome opal brooch. His wife demurred at first at
accepting the brooch, but finally did so, explaining later
that she did it simply to please him. Six months after-
ward, while sojourning in France and passing by motor
through a small village on the Loire, she decided suddenly
te pass the night at one of the quaint inns for which the
region is famous. That night the inn caught fire and burned
to the ground. She, her maid and her two small children
escaped barely with their lives. She recovered the trunk
in which she kept her jewelry, but it was partly destroyed.
The two pearl necklaces had turned as brown as coffee

(Continued on Page §1)

Warning:

The Health Officer will
not guard us against
this mounting peril .

as he does against con-
tagious diseases. We
must protect ourselves.

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

cf

The most wonderful machine

4

in the world

T RUNS for forty or fifty or sixty years

—sometimes for a hundred years—
without stopping!

The only repairs ever made on it are
made while it is functioning.

It is more efficient and more durable
than any machine of tempered steel—yet
the material which composes it has only
a small fraction of the strength of steel.

The most wonderful machine in the
world—the human heart!

“ “ “
The heart is so good we take it for granted. We
expect it to give a lifetime of perfect service. If it

performs pe rfectly, we seldom think of it. But if it
“acts up,” we begin to think, and think hard. The
proper course, then, is immediate and frequent
consultation with the family physician,
common attitude of indifference toward
our hearts—as long as they serve us faithfully
would be ideal, if it had worked out well. But it
hasn’t. It has resulted in heart disease becoming
the greatest single cause of death.

It is possible that all heart disease is prevent-
able; it is certain that much of it is preventable.

Our

-*revention, in this case, is not what the health
officer does for us, but what we do for ourselves.
Prevention requires that we shall treat “the most

wonderful machine in the world”’ with some of the
respect which we, as a matter of course, give to
machines less wonderful and less important,

on the heart and its
among the

A well- known authority
treatment lists “poisoning by caffein”
major causes of heart disease.

Of course, the use of caffein does not always re-
sult in a diseased heart. But as one of the thor-
oughly understood, major causes of heart disease,
and one which can readily be avoided, the use of

caffein deserves the thought of everyone who
hopes to live long, usefully, and happily.

Caffein is an artificial stimulant which acts
directly on the heart, tending to increase the num-
ber of beats per minute. It “speeds up” the heart.
And as the only time which the heart has for rest,
in the course of life, is the time between beats,
this “speeding up” not only means a greater load
of work, but less time to recuperate.

At the same time, caffein does not contribute
anything to the heart or body. It has no food
value. It does not provide the fuel for the extra
work which it requires the heart to do.

One step toward self-defense

Eliminate catfein from your diet! You can do
this without sacrificing the benefit and enjoyment
of a hot drink at mealtime. Change to Recital

Postum is made of whole wheat and _ bran,
roasted to bring out the full rich flavor. It is not
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drink in its own right—with a taste which is the

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grocer sells Postum in two forms
Cereal is also easy to make, but should be boiled 20 minutes.

Instant Postum, made in the cup by adding boiling water, is one of the easiest drinks in the world to prepare

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You are the operator of the most wonderful
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50 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST October 17,1925

Bring back those distant stations!
radio ‘A’

gas engine ignition
telephone and
telegraph
doorbells
buzzers
motor boat ignition
heat regulators
tractor ignition
starting Fords
ringing burglar
alarms
protecting bank
vaults
electric clocks
calling Pullman
porters

-they last longer

firing blasts
lighting tents

and outbuildings
running toys

YOUR ears can’t make up for weak batteries. Put new Eveready
Columbia Ignitors in your radio set and restore its power. They
light radio tube filaments with a steady, even current that puts the
spark of life in your set. Get Eveready Columbias. They last long
in radio work. Use the Eveready Columbia Ignitor for all dry cell
tubes. It’s easy to hook up a battery of Ignitors to suit the tubes
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Manufactured and guaranteed by

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Canadian National Carbon Co., Limited, Toronto, Ontario

(Continued from Page 48)
beans, ruined beyond repair. Threemonths
later she was found dead in her bathtub.
Her husband survived her but a short time.

Sometimes the fatality attached in the
popular mind to opals works out differently.
A woman well known in this country, an-
other of our customers, and a spinster, came
in one day with a nice-looking Hungarian
opal, small but of good quality. She asked
us to buy the stone. We declined.

“Very well,” she exclaimed. “Then I
shall leave it on your counter or throw it
away.”

She placed it on the counter and hurried
out of the store. We gave it to one of our
minor employes. He sent it to his sweet-
heart in England, who, superstitious, was
unwilling to keep it. She sold the stone and
with the proceeds she bought a ticket for
the Derby and won a hundred pounds.

The opal has always had a powerful ef-
fect upon men’s imaginations. In the Mid-
dle Ages people believed the stone would
fade and lose its luster if worn by a person
who’ was insincere, deceitful or impure.
When worn by the innocent, however, the
opal had the special virtues of all gems.

Some of the superstitions concerning
gems remain to this day, notably in the
case of amber. Apothecaries in Paris, and
probably some in this country, sell beads of
that material as a cure for sore throat and
ague, while some persons believe the gem
will prevent insanity, asthma, dropsy,
toothache and deafness.

The Diamond in the Cabbage

I have witnessed queer happenings that
had no superstitious tinge. One of our
wealthy customers rushed up to me one day
as fast as her dignity would permit and ex-
claimed that she had lost a solitaire dia-
mond earring. She had discovered the loss
the previous day and, remembering I had
sold the pair to her, came to me with her
trouble. The stone was gone but the setting
remained in her ear, she explained. I
calmed her as well as I could and suggested
that we place an advertisement in the news-
papers, offering a liberal reward if the stone
were returned to the store.

Several days later a rotund housewife
came in and, unwrapping a piece of news-
paper, disclosed a large diamond. She said
she had read our advertisement and judged
from the description that this was the
stone. She related the following circum-
stances:

On the day the jewel was lost she had
gone to market and had filled her basket
with meat and vegetables, among them a
huge cabbage. Upon arriving home she un-
packed her basket, prepared for the evening
meal by peeling the cabbage, and inside the
outer layer of leaves she saw something
gleaming. Thinking it was an imitation
diamond she did not become unduly elated.
However, she wrapped it in a piece of news-
paper and tucked it away.

The incident had been forgotten by the
next day, when she met a neighbor who
spoke of an advertisement in the morning
newspaper offering a reward for a loose
diamond. That started the woman think-
ing. Her next step was into our store. The
gem was the one that had been lost. We
rewarded the honest housewife with a
check for $500, much to her amazement and
satisfaction. She explained that she had
noticed a richly dressed woman sitting next
to her in the street car on that eventful
market day. The stone had probably be-
come loosened and had dropped into the
cabbage head.

A layman finding a valuable jewel seldom
estimates its true value. Too often the
gem is regarded as an imitation. I have
heard of numerous instances where men and
women have been too indifferent to pick up
from the street an article of value. Of
course they do not know that it is valuable,
but something seems to restrain people
from following the impulse that is instinc-
tive with savages, to pick up bright articles.
We have been fooled so often by bits of tin
foil and tobacco insignia that we are wary.

Here is a story of two women, one
wealthy, the other a young woman with
slender means who had come to this city
on a charitable mission. The first woman
owned a rare pearl necklace that she had
purchased from us. As she was hurrying
from a train one day the string of the neck-
lace broke, unknown to her. The necklace
fell to the pavement and some of the pearls
scattered.

The second woman was walking a short
distance behind. As she approached the
spot where the necklace lay she saw it. Her
first impulse, she said later, was to pass it
by, thinking that it was a cheap string of
beads. After taking a few steps she re-
traced her course, picked up the necklace,
but failed to take the trouble to gather in
the loose pearls. To herself she pictured the
amusement she would have in telling her
friends of her find and pretending it was
very valuable.

Later she overheard some women at her
hotel talking of a pearl necklace that had
been lost, for which a reward of $2000 had
been offered. In her room that evening she
examined the necklacé again and. observed
for the first time the expensive clasp, which
contained a diamond. She brought the
necklace to us. It proved to be the missing
one, but inasmuch as she had left six or
eight pearls on the pavement we could not
pay her more than $1500 of the reward.
That was a windfall for her. When she left
the store she was heard to exclaim, “The
Lord will provide.”

An expert can tell a real gem as far as he
can see it. The following incident contains
a coincidence that I suppose no self-
respecting fiction writer would ever use, but
it has a place in this truthful narrative. A
youth walked into our shop shortly before a
noon hour and asked to see some diamond
rings. He examined solitaires and three-
stone rings, meanwhile keeping the sales-
man interested and amused with smal! talk.
The customer paid particular attention to
the tags. He asked the salesman for his
card and said he would return in a day or
two to make a selection.

Several days elapsed before he returned,
this time at a later hour than on his first
visit. He inquired for his salesman, but
found he had gone to luncheon. The youth
expressed his disappointment and asked to
look at three-stone rings. He selected a
moderate-priced one as a possible choice
and, after some hesitation, requested the
salesman to reserve the ring until the fol-
lowing day, when he would return and pay
for it.

A Valued Ring Returned

While this conversation was taking place
another salesman, standing near by, looked
on with a trace of that suspicion that I sup-
pose nearly all jewelry salesmen have.
When the customer had gone the second
salesman stepped over to the man who had
been showing the rings and expressed his
suspicions. Together the two salesmen ex-
amined the trays. Apparently everything
was in order, when suddenly they noticed
that one tag had a green instead of the
white string always used in our store. The
ring to which that string was attached was
a small three-stone diamond affair of poor
quality, worth $125. The ticket had been
inscribed in some fashion similar to our
genuine tags, even to a cost mark, which,
however, was incorrect.

We realized that we had been robbed of a
valuable ring and that a cheap one had
been substituted. Immediately we checked
up on our ring stock and discovered that an
unusually fine three-stone ring, valued at
$3000, had been taken. The stock survey
had taken us forty-five minutes. One of
our representatives went to the police to
report the loss.

He had been gone a few minutes when
a friend from a neighboring jewelry store
walked in, opened his hand and displayed
a three-stone diamond ring. He asked a
salesman if he recognized it and if we had
lost it. The salesman, not having been ap-
prised of the loss, said he would inquire.

THE SATURDAY

EVENING POST

“Why, this is the ring stolen from us an
hour ago,” we exclaimed in concert.

Our neighbor explained that he had been
taking a walk after luncheon, smoking his
customary post-luncheon cigar, and that he
saw this ring on the pavement. He picked
it up and, returning to his establishment,
he examined it under a glass, where he dis-
covered our mark inside the shank.

We surmised that the thief had held the
ring in his hand, together with his glove,
and in walking rapidly up the street had
either dropped the ring accidentally or had
become panic-stricken, thinking he was fol-
lowed, and had decided to lose it. What-
ever the truth may have been, we were the
gainers by one ring worth $125.

What I have said about experts recog-
nizing jewels instantly does not apply to
members of their family. By that I mean
there is no transfer of talent from father to
son; and if you are a believer in what the
scientists call the inheritance of acquired
ability, you will have to look farther than
in a jeweler’s family. If my son intends te
follow the same calling as I have chosen, he
will have to learn it from the bottom up as
I did. In course of time he may be able to
recognize the genuine from the counterfeit,
too, but he will have to follow a course of
training.

The New York Dead Line

The daughter of one of our firm members
was shopping downtown, and as she was
about to step into a taxicab she glanced at
the ground where she saw something glit-
tering in the sunlight. She picked up what
she supposed was a rhinestone. Thinking it
a good joke, she took the stone home with
her and placed it on her father’s dressing
table, to see what comment he would make
upon it the next morning.

“Who put this diamond on my table?”’
her father exclaimed the following day as
he was dressing.

His daughter came to his door.

“T found it, father, on the street yester-
day,” she answered. ‘“‘Isn’t it a beautiful
rhinestone?”

“Rhinestone?”’ the parent retorted.
“Rhinestone, my eye! Why, that is a
diamond and weighs about two carats.”’

Father and daughter watched the news-
papers for a long time afterward, but ap-
parently it was never advertised for. The
father kept the jewel in his possession for
several years, and as the owner was never
found, he gave it to his daughter, who, I be-
lieve, has it yet.

Gems have always been the particular
prey of the thief, because they may be
easily stolen and quickly disposed of. Every
police department has its specialists in the
detection of jewel robberies, who do noth-
ing but devote their time to studying the
jewel thief.

Sometimes thieves become so active and
so well organized that radical measures
must be taken, such as Inspector Byrnes
adopted years ago when he established a
dead line at Fulton Street, New York, to
keep thieves out of the rich district south
of that thoroughfare, particularly out of
Maiden Lane, which was then, as now, one
of the centers of the jewelry trade. Re-
cently that dead line has been revived and
police from other cities are studying the
methods practiced by Commissioner En-
right and his subordinates.

I have seen, caught and exposed many
thieves in my career and it seems to me, as
time goes on, that criminal technic is losing
in subtlety. Crime seems to originate fre-
quently in the drug-stimulated wits of
degenerates, ending usually in holdups
with a casualty list of dead and wounded.
We have never had an experience of that
sort, but I am not bragging. Boasting is a
dangerous matter. Many a motorist has
learned that after he has told of having
gone so-and-so many miles without any
tire trouble, to have his braggadocio inter-
rupted by a blowout. If bandits should
visit us, we are ready. Our store has taken
precautions that would amaze you, but
what they are and how they work I must

, 51

leave to your imagination. If you were a
general you would not tell your plans of
defense to the enemy, would you? The
bandit is our enemy, just as he is the
enemy of all society.

But there is one class of thief who is not,
strictly speaking, an enemy. I refer to that
peculiar man or woman, the kleptomaniac.
I have seen kleptomania in many persons
otherwise scrupulously honest, but appar-
ently uncontrollable in the presence of
jewels. One of the greatest lawyers in this
city, a man who enjoys a nation-wide celeb-
rity, was a frequent visitor to our store
some years ago. His hobby was scarfpins,
and his collection was an excellent one.
He had as many pins as there are seeds
in a jar of raspberry jam, and he was ai-
ways adding to them.

We knew of his craze for that form of
jewelry and inasmuch as he had always
been a good customer, often buying lav-
ishly, he was naturally welcome to see any-
thing in our stock. Knowing, too, his repu-
tation as a man of integrity, it may be that
we in the store were remiss in not watching
the gentleman as he jeaned over the trays
and gloated over our exceptional displays.
At any rate, from time to time a scarfpin
would disappear. When a particulsrly
choice specimen went the way of the rest
our force became alert and increasingly
suspicious of everybody.

One day a salesman saw the lawyer siip
a scarfpin into his pocket and walk out of
the store. The salesman told others in the
store what he had seen. A short time after-
ward, perhaps a few days, the lawyer re-
turned. Every movement he made was
observed by at least six pairs of eyes.

We did not have long to wait. After look-
ing over the stock for a few minutes he
palmed a pin worth $600 and was about to
walk off with it when a representative of
the firm stopped him and invited him into
a private room. Faced by the evidence of
his guilt, the lawyer confessed that he had
been stealing from us for a long time. He
was a wealthy man, as he is today, and
after he had made restitution the firm took
the matter under advisement for a consid-
erable period but decided finally not to
prosecute. The newspapers missed a splen-
did yarn, but all of us felt that the man was
suffering from a disease as chronic and as
hard to cure as an organic ailment.

Caught With the Goods

“Something seemed to come over me
suddenly,”’ exclaimed one such klepto-
maniac, “I don’t know why I did it.”

These unfortunates co from good
homes. They are well nourished. Some of
them, like this lawyer, have large incomes
from an honorable profession or business.
Yet, without any apparent cause or rezson,
they yield. ‘

Of a different type is the man or woman
who tries to match his or her wits against
the salesman’s. I remember two instances.

A young man asked to look at some
necklaces. He seemed familiar with our
routine, which was to ask the prospective
customer to be seated at a table where he
could examine the merchandise comfort-
ably. It was our custom to inclose in plain
envelopes expensive pearls intended for
necklaces which had not yet been strung.
A salesman had arranged a number of those
envelopes on a table near this young man,
a fact whick he may have foreseen.

As he looked over the necklaces, mostly
of the moderate-priced variety, he would
glance from time to time at the envelopes
which he knew contained the expensive
jewelry. I watched him closely. He se-
lected a small necklace and paid for it. As
he turned, unaware that I had become sus-
picious, he quickly slipped one of the en-
velopes into his pocket. He was about to
walk away when I asked him to withdraw
his hand from his pocket. He saw that he
was caught. With a well-counterfeited at-
tempt at innocence he held up the enve-
lope and inquired: “ Are these for sale?”’

It was a bluff, pure and simple, but it
worked because he had not gone off the

52

Watch This

Column

Roses for

LOUISE DRESSER

This public tribute to
LOUISE DRESSER is inspired
by the remarkable work she has
done in Universal’s fine picture,
“The Goose Woman.” She has
given me one of the most refresh-
ing experiences
of my moving-
picture career,
and added faith
in the possibili-
ties of the screen
and its future.

All honor
to Rex Beach

for a great story
all honor to
Clarence Brown
for a masterly
piece of directing, but I am not
indulging in flattery when I ex-
press the belief that no other per-
son could have elevated this pic-
ture to such heights as LOUISE
DRESSER.

So, if you folks wish to

enjoy one of the rare treats of
the year, be sure to see ‘‘The
Goose Woman,’’ and in order
te be sure, ask the Manager of
your favorite theatre to get it.

‘The Phantom of the

Opera,’’ that fantastic and gor-
eous drama of the Paris Opera
louse, is enthusiastically endorsed ny Ss

critica. The praise is unusually high. N

CHANEY comes in again for such praise

as gladdens the actor's heart. Inquire at

your favorite theatre
if this picture has
been booked

I suggest
to you that you

see these pictures
of Universal’s new
White List: REGI-
NALD DENNY in
“California Straight
Ahead’’; VIR-
GINIA VALLI and
EUGENE O'BRIEN
in Samuel Hopkins
Adams’ “‘Siege’’; LAURA LA PLANTE
and PAT O'MALLEY in ‘‘ The Teaser’’;
HOOT GIBSON in ‘‘Spook Ranch’’;
JACQUELINE LOGAN and CULLEN
LANDIS in Temple Bailey's ‘‘Peacock
Feathevs"’; Dorothy Canfield’s ‘‘The
Home Maker.’ These will give you rare
entertainment. Write me a letter about

them.
Carl L{aemmle

* President |

ty

ca”

(Te be continved next week)

Would you itkean autographed photograph of Reginald
Denny? One wii! be nent you on receipt of 10c in stamps.

UNIVERSAL
PICTURES

730 Fifth Ave., New York City

THE SATURDAY

store property, which is an essential act to
prove a larceny, lawyers tell me. In this in-
stance we preferred to save our property
rather than allow the youth to leave the
store, with the risk that he might elude us.

Some thieves are remarkably adept at
palming articles or otherwise disposing of
them on their person while a salesman has
his attention diverted for an instant. Circus
gamblers with their ballyhoo “ The hand is
quicker than the eye” are in a measure cor-
rect. Eternal vigilance is always necessary
to protect property in a jewelry store.

Thieves often work in couples. A young
man, accompanied by a young woman,
asked to look at bracelets. There was noth-
ing about the prospective customer to en-
gender suspicion. At first the two were
interested in the more expensive bracelets,
ranging from $5000 to $10,000. Bracelets
at that price in flexible diamonds are favor-
ite prey for thieves. Such bracelets are
easier to hide, and the diamonds may be re-
moved readily from their setting to be sold
without fear of their being identified.

Nothing in that style seemed to suit the
young couple for the moment. They re-
quested that the tray be kept at hand while
they looked at some cheaper bracelets.
They seemed to decide on one costing
$1200, when the young man asked me if I
had anything else to show him.

I had been watching him closely, par-
ticularly when I bent over to reach the
tray with the cheaper bracelets. I had seen
a quick movement of his right wrist and I
suspected that all was not right.

“Why, yes,” I replied to his question, as
I reached over and grasped his arm. “‘ Now
this bracelet you have here is a specially
fine specimen and costs $6000!"

As I spoke a flexible diamond bracelet
dropped out from the youth’s coat sleeve
and fell on the counter. Was he flustered?
Not a bit,

“Yes,” he answered. “That is pretty,
but I rather prefer this one.”

He pointed to the $1200 bracelet.

“T shall leave a $10 deposit on it and
call for it tomorrow,” he said suavely. Of
course we never saw him again.

Precautions against such thievery are
better now than they ever were. Occasion-
aliy we have been a little puffed up over
safeguards, with the usual results that fol-
low after pride. Some years ago we de-
cided to abolish locked trays for rings on
the ground that such trays not only were
expensive but were a nuisance. In less than
a year we lost many valuable rings. The
locked trays were restored. Today we have
them and, in addition, we have “fillers” to
replace rings taken out temporarily. No
tray is ever returned to the case unless it is
complete, either with rings or with fillers.

Diamonds as an Investment

The diamond has always held first place
among gems. It is known and prized the
world over. No other substance outside of
the precious metals has such intrinsic
worth. Your diamond, if it be a fine one,
holds its own throughout all time and does
not deteriorate. It is true that it may be
chipped or broken, but that is rare. Even
then it can be recut or polished. Your fur
coat, your furniture, your piano, your mo-
tor car and even your pictures, unless they
be masterpieces, become less valuable as
the years go by.

Oriental peoples particularly appreciate
the durable and tangible value of gems.
Hence all their wealthier classes accumu-

| late them in quantity, because they know

they possess a portable form of wealth. In-
dian potentates follow that practice, and
in sudden revolution they are enabled to
decamp with a considerable part of their
wealth. Bootleggers, gamblers and thieves
have the same idea when they invest their
proceeds in diamonds.

Yet there are two fallacies involved in
the reasoning that diamonds may be read-
ily transferred into other forms of wealth.
The popular impression is that anyone
anywhere can realize the full amount that
the jewels cost. That is incorrect. It is

EVENING POST

true, however, that one can realize a much
larger proportion of the cost than could be
obtained on other merchandise, especially
if it has to be disposed of quickly. It is not
reasonable to expect to cash in gems for
their full cost. The merchant nas to have
his profit and his overhead expense, so un-
less there has been a great increase in mar-
ket value he must buy at a reduced price.

Frequently people say to me they had
always heard that diamonds were a good in-
vestment. Why should they be? They are
not like stocks and bonds, earning interest
or dividends. A conscientious merchant
will never deliberately tell his customers
that diamonds are a good investment. He
may say with reason that the diamond will
hold its own better than any other form of
personal property, but that is all.

Instances have been known where dia-
monds have increased in value to such an
extent that the merchant could afford to
give more than was originally paid. I have
known of many such. Recently we paid a
man three times as much as the gem cost
him fifteen years ago. That was a particu-
larly fine specimen, however.

When Stones Go Out of Style

That brings up the second fallacy people
commonly have, that diamonds are always
the same. Nothing could be farther from
thetruth. Thediamond grows old-fashioned
just as surely as feminine headdress, al-
though not quite so quickly, to be sure.
The style of cutting makes the difference
in both cases.

Several distinct changes in the cutting of
diamonds have taken place within the last
fifty years. When I was a boy my father
turned from farming to the jewelry busi-
ness, and the first objects that challenged
my attention in his store were the diamonds.
As the opportunity offered, I examined
them minutely. I noticed that nearly all of
the stones had black specks in them and
that the stones were clumsy and irregular
in shape. Most of them were oblong or
square and quite deep. Many of them
lacked brilliancy. Stones at this period
came mainly from Brazil, with a few from
India, but even then the Indian mines were
almost exhausted. The finest gems this
world has ever seen came from India, par-
ticularly from the Golconda mine, as every-
one knows who ever heard Doctor Conwell’s
lecture on Acres of Diamonds.

Brazilian diamonds are a beautiful lim-
pid white but full of carbon, as if something
had gone wrong in that geological period
when that variety was crystallized and
fused in the subterranean heat, pressure
and gases. Ninety per cent of the Brazilian
diamonds have carbon spots, and many of
them are so fissured that a really clean dia-
mond is rare. When the South African
fields were disccvered later, perfect crystals
became more numerous in the jewelry trade.

To get as large a diamond as possible
seemed to be the aim of diamond cutters
when I was a boy. The cutters wasted little
of the rough stone. The loss would not ex-
ceed 30 to 35 per cent of the uncut crystal.

PROTO, BY TAYLOR

October 17,1925

The final result was a jewel that was thick
and clumsy, oblong or square or irregular,
without much beauty or brilliancy.

In the seventies a Boston diamond cutter,
Moss by name, conceived the idea of cut-
ting a diamond in better proportions. He
would cut the stone round with a sharp
girdle, or belt, and with less of the stone
above the girdle than below. He produced
a diamond ever so much more symmetrical
and brilliant. That fashion continued until
about 1890.

At that time the best cutters realized
that to get a perfectly symmetrical gem it
must he cut with one-third of its height
from the girdle and two-thirds below, and
that the girdle must be extremely sharp
or knife-edged. That process involved the
loss of from 55 to 61 per cent of the rough
stone, It made the finished stone much
more costly because the by-products were
not of much value, although today they
may be used for very small stones in set-
tings. Such small stones, incidentally, are
called melee and are cut by cheap labor.

Those changes have helped to make some
diamonds old-fashioned, and it has always
been painful to me to tell people with such
old gems to sell that they have lost most of
their value.

Next to diamonds, I have been inter-
ested most in rubies. About manufactured
rubies we heard a great deal twenty years
ago, when a chemist took small ruby chips,
or alumina, and fused them with borax to
make a hard mass that could be cut into
stones. That disturbed the ruby market.

Later chemists experimented to make
synthetic stones by fusing under a blow-
pipe, or in the electric furnace, the elements
of gems and dropping the molten mass into
oil to produce a tear-shaped globule. It
seemed to have all the characteristics of the
natural crystal. People thought genuine
rubies and sapphires had had their day.
Yet there were defects in the synthetic
stones. They had certain bubbles and ser-
rated lines, unperceived by the layman
but readily seen by the expert. So, while
the market of genuine stones was affected
for a time, the condition was only tempo-
rary.

Cultured pearls also have had their day.
While they were in vogue they caused jew-
elers just as much anxiety as the synthetic
stones had done. The Japanese by indus-
trious experimentation have succeeded in
producing small pearls by placing tiny ob-
jects in the mollusk and allowing them to
remain for a period. Results have not been
satisfactory. The pearls are comparatively
small, with unattractive coloring. The cost,
too, is quite considerable, although less
than that of the real pearl.

The consensus of experts is that the imi-
tation pearl will never achieve popularity
or supplant the real jewels. People are too
sincere to be satisfied with anything but
the genuine.

Where and How to Buy Gems

Yet how is one, not an expert, to tell the
real from the spurious? That question is at
the foundation of the whole jewelry busi-
ness. A friend of mine the other day
showed me a pearl scarfpin for which he
had paid fifty dollars. I told him the pin
was not worth ten dollars. I surmised that
he had bought it in some small shop near
a railroad terminal, a ferry or somewhere
else where people are always in a hurry.
He said he had bought it near one of our
big stations and that he had selected it and
bought it, all within ten minutes.

I should say that buying a diamond is
much the same as buying ham and eggs.
You can go into a quick-lunch place and
buy the great American delicacy for twenty-
five cents, Or you can go into a first-class
restaurant and pay much more. But no
one pretends that it is the same dish. The
eggs are different. The ham is different.
The service is different. Everything is dif-
ferent.

So it is with gems. Diamonds are not
always diamonds. Pearls are not always
pearls. You must know where to buy them.

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

Ask the man who owns one

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

$1,350,000, and with the architect’s and en-
gineer’s fees, other costs of construction and
a 10 per cent profit to the builder the house
stands the codperative corporation about
$1,642,000.

The total price, land and building, was
$2,767,000, or about $5000 a room.

The difference between the price of the
stock and the total is covered by a first
mortgage of $1,300,000, running for a
period of ten years, without any require-
ment for annual amortization. The big life-
insurance company which lent the money
was satisfied that the security behind its
loan would not be impaired for ten years.
This fact is significant of the new attitude
of capital toward coéperative apartment
enterprises.

Four or five years ago there was probably
not an important financial institution in
America that would consider an application
for a loan on a codperative enterprise. The
word itself smacked of socialism, in capital's
ears. It took a long, difficult and patient
course of education on the part of the pio-
neer promoters of the modern type of codp-
erative houses to satisfy financial institu-
tions that their security was really a safe
form of investment. Today most of the big
life-insurance companies, savings banks
and other custodians of trust funds lend
their reserves readily on properly promoted
codperative houses.

The Coédperative-House Budget

They are exacting in their requirements,
which is all to the benefit of the tenant-
owners. They will not lend, for example,
on a property where the land value is too
large in proportion to the building cost.
Too small a building on a site where land
value is bound to increase hastens the day
when the tax load will become too heavy
to be carried by a few and the house must
be replaced by one large enough to spread
the burden among many. The big lending
institutions, moreover, scrutinize the plans
and specifications with an eye not only to
design and arrangement but to quality and
durability as well; they want assurance
that the house will outlast the mortgage,
which may run for thirty years or more.
And they require the inspection and O. K.
of their own construction engineers at
every stage of the building’s progress.

All these assurances of the soundness of
the investment having induced the pur-
chase of a $24,000 apartment in this house,
the prospective tenant-owner is required to
sign a lease whereby he binds himself to
pay a rent of one dollar a year for ninety-
nine years, and in addition his proportion-
ate share of the cost of maintaining the
building, which has been estimated care-
fully by experts in building management
and is guaranteed for the first five years, at
figures which are incorporated in the con-
tract of sale. Here they are:

ESTIMATED EXPENSES OF MAINTENANCE AND
OPBRATION SHARE
vant.
OWNER OF
ROOM
Sra
FLOOR
$ 308.83

105.63

24.37

16.25

5.68

40.62

TOTAL FOR
THE HOUBR

Operating:
Labor
Fuel
Electricity
Water
Supplies
Repairs -
Miscellaneous and Con-
tingencies
Insurance 1,200.00
Administration 6,000.00

Total Operating Expense $43,942.50

$19,005.00
6,500.00
1,500.00
1,000.00
350.00
2,500.00
5,887.50 95.67
19.50
97.50
714,05
Taxes . . $50,000.00 $812.50
Interest on Mortgage—-5}
per cent
| Gross Expenses
Less Income
Net Expenses
Reserve Fund for Mortgage
Totals

__71,500,00

165,442.50

. 14,050.00
151,302.50
14,770.00
$166,162.50

1,161.80
2,688.35
__ 228.35

2,460.00
240.00

$2,700.00

(Continued from Page 19)

A rent of $2460 a year, or $205 a month,
for nine rooms and three baths on Fifth
Avenue is quite within reach of a family of
very moderate means. Even when the 6
per cent that the investment might bring
elsewhere is added, the total comes to but
$3900 a year. In this case, too, the tenant-
owners decided to put aside a reserve fund
of a dollar a year per share of stock, to re-
duce the mortgage when it falls due and
cut down their interest charge proportion-
ately. Including that, the total cost to the
tenant-owner of this particular apartment
is $4140 a year. For a similar apartment
in the same neighborhood he would have
to pay in rent, if he were not the owner, not
less than $7500 a year and from that up to
$10,000.

The labor charge in the foregoing table
is interesting as indicating what it costs to
provide service for Fifth Avenue residents.
Included in the budget of $19,005 are a
superintendent, a carriage man, two door
men, eight regular elevator operators, two
extra operators, two porters, one handy
man and one fireman. The superintendent
must be a licensed engineer and an electri-
cal and mechanical expert, for he has a bat-
tery of heating boilers, four high-speed
electric elevators and an intricate system of
wiring, plumbing and gas-piping to look
after, as well as the general upkeep of the
building. Besides his salary of $160 a
month, he gets a four-room apartment in
the rear of the ground floor.

The most significant item in the table,
however, is that of ‘administration, $6000.”
That is the salary paid by the codperative
corporation to a professional building man-
ager, in this and most instances a real-
estate brokerage corporation, which may
serve simultaneously as manager of a dozen,
fifty or a hundred similar houses.

The functions which the managing agent
performs begin with financial matterr.
Usually the sale of the cojperative apart-
ments to their ultimate tenant-owners is
intrusted to the firm which is to manage the
building. Assales agent, the real-estate man
is the sole judge of the qualifications of the
applicants for slices of air. He alone can
take an impersonal attitude in accepting
or rejecting, deciding who will or will not
fit into the economic, social and neighborly
requirements which make for successful
codperation. If one family which does
not fit is permitted to enter, the whole
character of the building is impaired, and
this is true whether the unfit one is higher
or lower in the economic and social scale.

The Managing Agent's Duties

A good agent, then, must be a good
judge of human nature. He must be some-
thing of a financial expert, too, because he
is often called upon to furnish or obtain
for the prospective customer facilities for
financing his purchase. For these prelimi-
nary services the agent gets the standard
fee for selling as fixed by his local real-
estate board—5 per cent in New York.

The agent calls the first meeting of the
new stockholders when all the shares
have been sold, and instructs them how to
organize their corporation. They elect
their board of directors, and so far as the
rest of their number are concerned, that is
all they have to worry about until their
next annual meeting. The directors elect
one of their number president, select an
individual, a bank or a trust company to
act as treasurer, and sometimes make the
agent secretary. That last is the common
practice in Chicago, where one firm of bro-
kers serves ao secretary of more than one
hundred codperative-apartment-house cor-
porations, including the cost of that work
in its management fee.

The agent attends to all insurance, makes
all collections from the tenant-owners, pays
the taxes, interest on the mortgage and
other charges when due. He alone employs
and dismisses all employes of the building

October 17,1925

OWN YOUR OWN FLAT -

He makes the contracts for all major re-
pairs and painting which some employe
cannot do. He buys all supplies, including
the coal. One Chicago concern buys coal
at the mine, brings it to the city by the
trainload, and apportions the cost among
the hundred or more houses which it serves
at a material saving to the tenant-owners.

It is to the agent that all complaints by
tenant-owners are made, whether they re-
late to the operation of the building, the
manners of the operating personnel or the
habits of other tenant-owners. Anybody
who is not satisfied with the agent’s way of
running things is at liberty, of course, to
appeal to the directors, who may dismiss
the agent on thirty days’ notice. If the
aggrieved one fails to impress his codwners,
he may swallow his grievance, move out
and sublet his apartment or sell his shares.
Then it is up to the agent to get him a sub-
tenant or a purchaser satisfactory to the
remaining members of the corporation, at
the best price for the individual owner.

It is the professional building manager,
clothed with almost arbitrary authority in
matters over which groups and committees
are prone to quarrel or which they are
reasonably sure to neglect, who has made
the coéperative apartment successful in
America, and largely inspired the revised
attitude of capital toward such properties.
One of the first questions the financiers ask
when approached for a mortgage loan on a
codperative property is the name of the
agent, and upon his reputation and ex-
perience as a manager of coéperative prop-
erties the decision as to granting the loan
often hinges.

Keeping Off the Rocks

The bankers realize that codperative en-
terprises based upon mutual effort and
‘abor, which work successfully in Europe,
have never worked in America. The indi-
vidualistic American is disinclined to per-
sonal effort for the common good. He feels
no especial need of the support of the
group to which he may not be attached six
months hence. He will codperate with his
dollars, but that is usually about his coép-
erative limit. He will not give time or
thought to the details of any business out
of which he is not getting his major income
and interest in life.

Failure to recognize this American char-
acteristic has wrecked many well-meant
coéperative enterprises of various sorts.
Some of the early efforts at codperative
home owning nearly went on the rocks be-
cause they were based on the plan of every
tenant-owner and his wife having a finger
in the pie. These early efforts, too, lacking
professional and sound advice as to financ-
ing, cost their tenant-owners a great deal
more than they had anticipated. I have
not been able to find a record of a complete
failure of a coéperative apartment house;
but that there was none was due more to
good luck than good management, until
their operation was placed in professional
hands.

I asked a banker, owner of a $75,000 co-
operative apartment in one of the many
such houses that line Park Avenue, what
his board of directors really had to do.

“The only important matter which I can
recall now,” he said, “was to decide
whether the door men should wear long
trousers or knee breeches. We had quite a
spirited debate.”

The codperative tenant-owner, except in
emergencies like that, is under no more ob-
ligation to personal contact with the other
occupants of the house than the tenant in
an apartment house of the ordinary type.
He has the assurance, however, that if he
does make acquaintances in the building,
they are persons who have passed the same
standards of manners as have been applied
to himself, and so are not going to intrude
upon his privacy or otherwise annoy him

(Continued on Page 56)

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

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THE SATURDAY

(Continued from Page 54)

by doing things which he would not think
of doing. The aloofness of the average New
York apartment dweller arises not from
unneighborly instincts but from fear of
opening the door to too-convenient neigh-
bors whose manners may be those of a
totally different tradition.

Physically the nine-room apartment on
the fifth floor which cost $24,000 is quite
different from a nine-room apartment in a
building designed to be rented. The co-
operative apartment movement has begun
something approaching a revolution in ur-
ban domestic architecture. The problem
of designing apartments as permanent
homes, rather than as profit earners for a
landlord, has attracted some of the fore-
most architects, and some extremely inter-
esting experiments and new ideas, both in
exterior design and interior arrangements,
have resulted. A new type of specification
in which quality and durability are em-
phasized rather than cost has been devel-
oped. The result in this house is an
apartment in which foyer, living room and
dining room open up for entertaining in a
clear sweep of nearly sixty feet across the
front, while the three masters’ bedrooms at
the back, placed to get a clear sweep of
light and air, are on a proportionately gen-
erous scale, and the intervening space in-
cludes, besides kitchen, pantries, two maids’
rooms and laundry, a servants’ hall and ten
huge closets. The count of nine rooms is ob-
tained by omitting foyer and servants’ hall.

When the new tenant-owner takes pos-
session of this generous slice of air he finds
that such matters of taste as the wall deco-
rations, the electric-lighting fixtures, the
style of the mantel over the big wood-
burning fireplace, the color of the woodwork
and all such similar details have been left
to him—or to his wife—to decide. He may
have had the partitions arranged differently
from the standard plan while the house
was in course of construction. Perhaps at
some future time he may wish to rearrange
the room spaces. He is at liberty to do
whatever he pleases within his own four
walls; there is no landlord to say him nay.
Of course he pays for these things himself,
as he would in his own suburban house,

There is no top limit to what he may
spend on the decoration and furnishing of
his codperative apartment, He is justified
in indulging his taste, for he is furnishing
for permanence. Some of the most sump-
tuously furnished homes in New York are
in codperative apartments. The maximum
was reached by a young man of great in-
herited wealth who bought an apartment in
a Park Avenue house for around $100,000
and spent $380,000 for its decorations.

Now what can the owner of a codpera-
tive apartment do with his shares of stock
besides file them as a souvenir? And what
can he do with his apartment besides
live in it?

Borrowing on the Stock

He can borrow money on his stock. It is
good banking collateral, if the house has
been properly financed. A banker will ac-
cept the fact of an underlying institutional

| loan as fairly convincing evidence of the
| soundness of the property. Of course the
banker needs to be made familiar with
the house and its whole plan of operation as
| he needs to be concerning any corporation
on the shares of which he is asked to make a
loan. Progressive bankers in most of the
cities in which the codperative housing idea
| has taken root regard these shares, generally
| speaking, as good collateral, particularly if
the would-be borrower is the sort of person
| who is entitled to borrow on good security.
Here, again, the established character of
the house has a distinct financial value.

Some banks wil! lend as high as 80 per
cent of the par value on individually held
shares in codperative apartment houses of
the modern type. The purchases of slices
of air are financed, in the great majority of
instances, through such loans. Few buy-

| ers pay all cash. One corporation in New
| York, with $10,000,000 of resources, has

EVENING POST

been organized solely for the purpose of
lending money to buyers of coéperative
apartments, on the security of the shares,
allowing monthly installment repayment
over a period of from two to four years. As
high as 80 per cent of the total purchase
price is often lent in this way, so that the
purchaser of the apartment just described
needed to put up only $4800 of his own
money in order to gain possession.

Should the borrower default, the lending
company can either sell the stock or sublet
the apartment at an excess above the pay-
ments called for in the lease and apply the
difference to the loan. The managing agent
is always ready to codperate in a transac-
tion of that kind, for which he gets the
standard commission. In the better houses
he has a waiting list of acceptable persons
eager to buy or subrent an apartment.

The $24,000 apartment on Fifth Avenue
has a minimum rental value, unfurnished,
of at least $7500 a year—probably a thou-
sand or so higher, as rents go in that part
of Manhattan. Furnished, the owner might
get $1000 a month for it. It takes but a
bit of figuring to disclose that the invest-
ment is extremely profitable.

Profit in Subletting ~

In calculating the total rent paid by the
tenant-owner we have allowed him 6 per
cent on his $24,000, and an additional 1 per
cent invested in the mortgage redemption
fund, above his maintenance charges of
$2460 ayear. But he is getting $7500 a year
at a cost of $2460 a year, or a net income
on his investment of $5040 a year. Any way
you figure that, it is 21 per cent of $24,000.
The tenant-owner is getting that return for
his money in the shape of reduced rent or
increased accommodations, so long as he oc-
eupies his apartment himself; but all he
has to do to realize it in cash is to gain the
consent of his directors to sublet, granted
as a matter of course ordinarily, and tell the
agent to find him a subtenant acceptable
to his associates. And that is always easy
enough, for good tenants want to get into
codperative houses.

The question is often asked why, if there
is a readily accessible investment yielding
such a return as that, with such a degree
of certainty, capital does not rush into it?
There is a catch in it, though the invest-
ment return often runs higher than the 21
per cent just computed above. The catch is
that nobody but the tenant-owner himself
can get such returns on his capital, and he
cannot be assured of getting them continu-
ously in cash. To assume otherwise would
be to assume permanency of tenancy by
the subtenant. If tenants were perma-
nent, owning an apartment house would
not be the hazardous business which it
actually is. Like the average farmer, the
average landlord is dependent for large
profits on the rise in his land value. But in
the codperative apartment, vacancies and
the cost of filling them and redecorating for
each new tenant, the largest expenses of the
commercial landlord, are eliminated, which
explains the seeming paradox of the tenant-
landlord earning a large profit while the
professional landlord gets a small one.

That is true, however, only in the 100 per
cent codperative house, which is the new
thing in codperatives in America. There
have been 50—50 codperatives for years, the
tenant-owners occupying some of the space
and relying upon the rental income from
the rest to bring their own rent down. They
are subject to all the hazards of the com-
mercial landlord, and differ not at all in
principle from an apartment house under
a single ownership, although they have
generally been successful in giving their
owners, for a much larger proportional in-
dividual investment than in a 100 per cent
house, greatly reduced rentals for them-
selves, and in some instances absolutely
free rent for long periods of years. Their
shares have no more collateral value, how-
ever, than those of any other apartment-
owning corporation.

Under precisely the same general finan-
cial plan as this Fifth Avenue house, a

October 17,1925

group of Scandinavian workingmen in
Brooklyn, nearly 600 families, have built
more than fifty codperative apartment
houses for themselves. The only differences
are in the social and economic standards
involved. These are five-story walk-ups,
built on land cheap enough to provide play-
grounds for the children. They are of sub-
stantial, slow-burning construction and
have cost, land and buildings, only about
$1500 a room, as against the $5000 a room
on Fifth Avenue. A five-room apartment,
steam-heated, electric-lighted, of well-
designed interior arrangement and modern
plumbing, costs the tenant-owner $7500.
Sixty per cent of this is covered by an
insurance-company mortgage, so that the
buyer has to pay only for his equity of
$3000. Through the finance company to
which I have referred he can make this pur-
chase on an initial payment of $750, paying
the remainder in monthly installments of
$62.50 and interest over three years.
Expense for maintenance and operation
is reduced to a bare minimum. One janitor
attends to several houses, and his wage,
split among thirty or forty tenant-owners,
is the only labor charge. Repairs, insurance
and taxes are proportionately somewhat
higher than on Fifth Avenue. The biggest
item is 6 per cent interest on the mortgage;
the next, 3 per cent annual amortization,
which wipes it out in thirty-three years, but
every six months reduces the interest
charge. The expenses tabulate about like
this for the individual five-room apartment
owner:
Interest on Mortgage
Amortization
Labor 100.00
Taxes 100.00
Coal 40.00
Repairs, ete. 25.00
Insurance 20.00
$645.00

That comes to $53.75 a month for an
apartment of which the normal rent is
from seventy-five to ninety dollars. More-
over, these payments are reduced as the
mortgage is paid off and the interest charge
drops. More than half the monthly charge
represents savings and interest, so that
when the mortgage is finally cleared off the
tenant-owner will have to pay only twenty-
five dollars a month rent, or less. Long
before that time, however, he will be earn-
ing a good deal more than 20 per cent on
his initial investment of $3000. His rental
value is increasing, as is the underlying land
value, and he can sell at any time at a cash
profit. Some of the thrifty ones in this group
have bought into several of the buildings
and are making their rent income pay for

$240.00
120.00

‘their own apartments. Any of these

tenant-owners with his stock paid for has
a reserve on which he can borrow up to 80
per cent of its par value in an emergency.

The Financial Extremes

As I write I receive the announcement
that one of the large insurance companies
has granted a mortgage loan of $950,000 to
a group composed entirely of members of
trade unions, to finance the construction of a
five-story coéperative house to accommo-
date 242 families, covering an entire block in
the Borough of The Bronx. The house will be
built around a central garden-playground,
and the estimated carrying charges to indi-
viduals, above their initial investment of
about $4000 a family, will be about four-
teen dollars a room per month, including
interest and amortization of the mortgage.

Houses of this general type are by no
means the irreducible minimum in coépera-
tive apartments, as the one on Fifth Ave-
nue is not the possible or actual maximum.
For seventeen rooms and seven baths in
another Fifth Avenue house a New York
merchant recently paid $150,000, while
precisely two city blocks east and half a
mile north codperative apartments have
been bought on down payments of $100
and ten dollars a month installments.

The pastor of a church on New York’s
upper East Side found his congregation

(Continued on Page 58)

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

Youwonldnt
rivewith a

Lea

If you discovered a leak in your gas tank, you
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after 10,000 miles or more, as a steady dribble
from your tank.
Old spark plugs may continue to fire for you, but
they are wasting gas every mile you drive.

And if even a single one isn’t firing, all the gas going
into that cylinder is wasted and you are actually run-
ning the risk of serious damage that will be costly to
repair.

Your own garage man or car dealer will tell you
there is no question about the economy of putting in
a complete set of new spark plugs at least once a year.

When you change spark plugs at least once each
year—as you should— put in dependable Champions.

Champion is the better spark plug. None other has
or can have Champion double-ribbed sillimanite core
or Champion special electrodes.

The seven Champion types provide a correctly de-
signed spark plug for every engine.

Champions are or equipment on the entire range
of cars, from Ford all the way up to Rolls-Royce.

—

Ce ee i »

Champions are fully guaranteed. Champion X for Fords is 60 cents.
Blue Box for all other cars, 75 cents (Canadian prices 80 and 90 cents). n
You will know the genuine by the double-ribbed sillimanite core. :

Champion Spark Plug Company, Toledo, Ohio
Champion Spark Plug Company of Canada, Limited, Windsor, Ont.

HAMPION

Dependable for Evexy Engine

CV mark the place. |
with beauty orever

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desire of a family to erect a Memorial,

it is natura! co want a Memorial that will
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Beautiful Designs

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their sense of peace, of rest, of calm dignity,
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Practical requirements, as the size of the lor
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Wrrn each Guardian Memorial, we give an en-
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rHE INC.

}

THE SATURDAY

(Continued from Page 56)
dwindling as the character of the neighbor-
hood changed. He talked over with his
trustees the question of moving the church.
The upshot was the decision to try to re-
store the character of the neighborhood.

The church had a small endowment fund,
which could legitimately be invested in
real-estate mortgages. It bought two
houses, of ten apartments each, and sold
the individual spaces to families which at
least would not discriminate against the
church. That was in 1920. Since then
the church has bought four more apart-
ment houses, accommodating sixty fami-
lies, who are buying their apartments on
easy terms and whose friends are moving
into the district.

These are five-room and six-room apart-
ments, electric-lighted and, in two of the
houses, steam-heated as well. The tenant-
owners pay from thirty to forty-three dol-
lars a month, of which ten dollars to $12.50
is applied on the principal of the mortgage
which the church holds. The remainder
covers all operating expenses, taxes and in-
terest, and so far has left a material an-
nual surplus which has been applied on the
mortgage. In the same neighborhood, in
a house without either steam heat or elec-
tric wiring, the landlord gets forty dollars
a month for the ground-floor apartments of
the same size.

These church-financed apartments were

| sold on initial payments of only $100 and in

some instances even less. Their tenant-
owners take even more pride in their deco-

| ration and rearrangement than did the

Park Avenue millionaire who spent $380,-

| 000 on his. He spent nothing but money;

they put their own labor into theirs. One
tenant-owner made such interesting and

| practical improvements in his slice of air

that a small-scale model of it, shown at the
New York Housing Exhibition, was voted

| an almost perfect type of workingman’s
| home. He did the work of remodeling him-

self and added at least $1000 to the value
of his property.
Each of these houses is owned by its

| individual corporation, which employs a
| secretary-treasurer to act as managing

agent. His compensation is the same as
that charged by the managing agent of the
Fifth Avenue house—3 per cent of the

| gross receipts from tenant-owners.

The investment value of these apart-
ments was demonstrated last year when

| one of the tenant-owners, who had been in

possession only ten months, was offered a
job in another city and wanted to sell. A

| young woman intending to get married

paid him his $100 original investment and
another $100 representing the ten dollars

| a month he had contributed toward the
| mortgage amortization. Pending her mar-
| riage, the new owner rented the apartment

for forty-two dollars a month; her monthly
charges, including ten dollars on the mort-

| gage, were thirty dollars.

Suburban Codperatives
“‘T told her she had better hurry up and

| get married,” said the pastor, ‘“‘as I did

not form that corporation to enable owners

| of apartments to become profiteering land-

lords.”
Two hundred and sixty-four dollars a

| year net return on a $200 investment does

seem to smack of profiteering!

Whatever one’s tastes and standards,
there are codperative apartments in New
York, Chicago, San Francisco, Washington,
a dozen other cities, to fit them. As I write,
my mail brings me news of a codperative
apartment house that has been projected
for Miami and another under way in St.
Petersburg.

Why, with all the loose land in Florida

| that has not been resold more than five or

MEMORIALS

of Everlasting ‘Beauty,

six times this season, anybody wants to
buy an apartment when he might have a
purple stucco bungalow, is somewhat of a
mystery until one considers that the co-
operative apartment often enables one to
live where otherwise only the rich, and few
of them, could find foot room. There is

EVENING POST

only a limited number of sites in St. Peters-
burg, for instance, from which one can get
an unobstructed view of the bay; locations
giving outlook upon the waterfront are
few and expensive in Miami. Less than
two miles measures the Fifth Avenue front-
age overlooking Central Park. From only
a few hilltops in San Francisco can one look
upon the Presidio.

The coéperative apartment, however, is
not exclusively a city development. Subur-
ban codperatives, provided with sand piles,
gardens, tennis courts and accessible golf,
are spreading the vogue of this new plan of
home ownership. Half an hour out from
Manhattan one development represents, so
far, an investment of more than $15,000,-
000 by a corporation which combines the
functions of promoter, builder, sales agency
and managing agent. More than 100 co-
operative houses hold ten or twelve families
each; five-story walk-ups and six-story
elevator houses. They are arranged in
groups of twenty or more houses, sepa-
rated by formal gardens and lawns, There
is a golf course, tennis courts, dirt gardens
for flowers or vegetables, playgrounds for
the children. Five rooms and two baths to
seven rooms and three baths is the space
range, all on a fairly uniform plan which
has been found to satisfy the average buyer.
Some 1500 families, about 5000 persons,
have bought slices of air in this develop-
ment alone.

Comparative Costs

The plan of individual financing in this
development is similar to that which pre-
vails in Chicago. The selling company
lends the money on monthly repayment
terms to the buyer. A five-room garden
apartment costing $10,400 calls for an initial
payment of $2000 and monthly install-
ments of $150, of which seventy-three dol-
lars applies to the purchase of the $10,400
stock and the balance covers the upkeep
charges and interest and amortization on the
insurance-company first mortgage. When
the stock has been paid for and the mort-
gage paid off, in about ten years, the up-
keep charge is anticipated to run about
thirty-eight dollars a month for an apart-
ment which today rents readily for $150 a
month.

Another semisuburban development, re-
cently completed near the north end of
Manhattan Island, has a group of houses
around a central garden on a terraced hill-
side, so that every apartment has a view
of the Hudson River and the Palisades.
Prices for three to six rooms range from
$4050 to $10,250, with moderate initial
payments and provision for installment
payments of the balance. Maintenance
charges above mortgage amortization are
approximately half the normal rent of sim-
ilar apartments.

Ten miles or so south, in atmospheric
Greenwich Village, a group of iifty authors
and artists bought five old ten-family tene-
ments, renovated the interiors, installed
electric lights and modernized the plumb-
ing and heating systems and are occupying
them at an average individual first cost of
around $5000, with average upkeep charges
around forty dollars a month. A block
away similar apartments rent for $90 to
$135 a month.

Between these two geographical ex-
tremes 100 or more apartment houses have
been bought by groups of tenants under the
provisions of a New York statute of 1920
giving any such group the right to dis-
possess the old tenants and take over the
property for their own use.

In Chicago, where the standard type of
city housing is the three-story walk-up
apartment house, the first codperatives
were organized to purchase existing build-
ings. Now many new buildings designed
especially for codperative sale and occu-
pancy are being erected. Some of the fine,
ten and twelve story apartment houses on
the North Side’s gold coast have also been
sold to their tenants. Prices naturally run
lower in Chicago than in New York for sim-
ilar accommodation because of the lower

October 17,1925

land values. There is a larger number of
desirable sites, too, because of the city’s
thirty miles of lake front and its sixty miles
of park and boulevard frontage.

In Chicago, a seven-room apartment for
which the normal rent would be $120 a
month can be bought for $3000, covering
the equity above the mortgage. By paying
in cash the tenant-owner gets possession at
a monthly charge of sixty dollars, of which
about twenty-eight dollars is his upkeep
cost, the balance applying on the mortgage.
But many have been sold on initial pay-
ments of from $200 to $500, the buyer
simply paying the normal rent of $120 a
month until the excess has covered his pur-
chase price of $3000. Small wonder that
every Chicago real-estate dealer handling
coéperatives properties reports a long wait-
ing list and quick resales at a profit to the
tenant-owners.

In Washington, a similar condition pre-
vails. I recently saw reports of resales of
coéperative apartments which had cost
their owners $11,500 each at from $15,000
to $18,000. Such an apartment, with a
normal rental value of from $175 to $200,
required an original investment of about
$4000 on the part of the tenant-owner, then
about ninety dollars a month as payment
on the stock and fifty-three dollars a month
for upkeep and amortization.

Coéperative apartments for occasional
use, as at seashore resorts or as a pied-d-
terre in town for the country dweller, are
coming into vogue on both coasts. These
are usually of the California type, equipped
with all sorts of built-in and disappearing
conveniences. One such house, on a fash-
ionable uptown cross street in New York,
has one-room apartments with ingenious
closets into which bed, kitchenette and
dining table vanish when not in use; there
is a dressing room and a bath. The whole
sold for $3000, with annual maintenance
charges of $350 a year. It can be readily
sublet in the off season, for the tenant-
owner uses it only in the winter. He and
his wife park their evening clothes there
and use it when in town for the theater or
shopping or when business keeps him in the
city. Formerly he spent about $600 a year
in hotel bills.

Lessons From Ab and Ung

New as the coéperative apartment is in
America, it is merely a return to the most
primitive principles of community life. No
landlord stood by to prevent Ung, the cave
man, from carving the charging aurochs on
the wall of his particular niche in the rocks.
Ab, the cliff dweller, owned his ‘dobe-
walled slice of air in fee and in perpetuity,
and paid his maintenance and operating
charges in kind. We have been traveling
in a circle and are getting right back where
we started from.

Europe got around the circle before we
did. At Rennes, in France, there are coép-
erative apartment houses dating from 1720,
some of the spaces still occupied by de-
scendants of the original purchasers! In
Paris within the last few years several very
large codperative apartments have been
built. In Norway, Sweden, Holland, Fin-
land, Italy and Spain the idea has gained
great headway. In those countries, as in
Germany and England, it is primarily a
working-class movement, a development
of the coéperative buying societies which
flourish on the other side of the Atlantic
but which have never taken permanent
root in America.

We have Americanized the codperative
housing idea by introducing the professional
managing agent, entirely detached from
the owning group, by enlisting the resources
of the great pools of investment capital and
by making it often both financially profitable
and fashionable to own an individual slice of
air. In devising ways whereby the average
citizen can codperate in home ownership
without diversion of his attention from the
exciting occupation of making money to the
prosaic task of lending a helping hand, we
have adapted codperation to American
individualism.

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

Many of
the necessities of
life would cost
much more but
for their service.

Hardware Wholesaler Performs Great National Service

HE great Hardware Wholesalers of this
country perform a service to the whole
people which is little understood.

Every year they gather from the four cor-
ners of the earth over a billion dollars worth
of merchandise which they distribute to the
retail merchants of évery city, town and vil-
lage in the country.

This great variety of merchandise is distrib-
uted at remarkably low cost.

Hundreds of manufacturers have tried to
distribute their products direct to retailers, or
even direct to consumers, only to find that
such direct distribution on any large scale costs
more instead of less.

But the Hardware Wholesalers are more
than distributors, they also are arbiters of
quality—value—price.

They open the channels of trade to worthy
products—close those channels to the unworthy.

Many of the necessities of life would cost
appreciably more but for their service.

The cost of Retailing would be appreciably
more but for the service of the Wholesaler in
selecting, valuing and making quickly available
in small quantities, the thousands of items which
make up the stock of many kinds of merchants.

In the case of automobile tires, they use
their lower cost of distribution to make possi-
ble a higher quality tire.

And higher quality in a tire means added
miles of trouble-free service.

The public appreciates and understands this
meaning of quality in a tire.

Mansfield Tires—chosen, distributed and
censored by Hardware Wholesalers— are
growing fast in public favor,—faster, probably,
than any other tire.

When you buy Mansfields, and find you
have bought a new low cost per mile of tire
service, thank the Hardware Wholesaler for
effecting a lower distribution cost and turning
it into those extra trouble-free miles) which
The Mansfield so regularly delivers.

THE MANSFIELD TIRE & RUBBER COMPANY, MANSFIELD, OHIO
Balloon Cords Truck Cords Heavy Duty Cords Regular Cords Fabric Tires

Tire Manufacturers Extraordinary to the Hardware Trade

MANSFIELD

Garages Motor Car Dealers Accessory Dealers Hardware Stores

)

j/

»-we called it’,

t CREAM»

24_EN years ago Mennen intro-
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ment in shaving. The miraculous
product was called Mennen Shav-
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Instead of a stingy, skim-milk
lather, it gave a thick, rich, creamy
lather such as men had never
seen before.

“After me, the flood.” As many
“creama’’ sprang up as there are
hairs on a he-face.

But any dairyman will tell you
that there are creams and creams.
Mennen Shaving Cream is Grade
A, triple extra.

It’s not only the bigness of
Mennen lather. it’s the way it
softens bristles by dermutation.
It’s not only the wetness of Men-
nen lather. It’s the way it gets
moist-~fast,--with any water,—
at any temperature.

If you’re trying to match thin,
puny lather against heavy-weight
whiskers, switch to a diet of rich
cream — Mennen Shaving Cream.
Whacking big tubes cost 50c.

Mennen Taicum for Men is the
Cream’s silent (and invisible)
partner, It matches your skin and
doesn’t show. Feels mighty fine
after bathing or shaving. 25c.

bane Mra.
(Meaner Selesmen)

MENNsn

SHAVING CREAM

with threaded cap

YOUR CHOICE
OF TUBES 5(¢

New-style tube with |
wox-removable top iP

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

| FASHIONS IN FLOWERS

“*No,’ said mamma, ‘is it any good?’

| “*Fine! And there’s a girl in it with a
lot of make-up who looks quite a bit like

| Helen; and her name is Helen, too— Helen

Montmorency.’

“Let's go around, Hele ,’ urged mamma,
“But I excused myseli on the ground
that I was behind with my studies—which
| certainly was well inside the truth—ran up
to my room and sneaked out the back way.
“And that night, right in the middle of
| my big scene, whom should I see down in
| the third row but mamma, glaring up at me
| and violently shaking her head! She looked
as if she were going to climb right up over
| the footlights that minute and spank the
younger generation before the assembled
crowd. I never saw mamma look so mad!
| I never did faster thinking in my life. Soon
| as the curtain fell she burst around back
| and read the riot act. I had just about
| half a minute to sell her the big idea of her
| daughter as an actress—and I did it, the
| manager backing me. I toured Canada a
| while, then we went into the war, and I
started out to sell thrift stamps. I sold
more than four million dollars’ worth. So
you see’’—-she laughed—‘“‘ with that back-
ground, selling flowers isn’t so hard. First,
you've got to sell yourself and after that
you can sell anything.

“Mother had a little florist shop, but it
was in the wrong neighborhood. The peo-
ple who passed weren't the kind who
bought flowers. Consequently trade was
dull. We barely made expenses. I'd gone
back to helping her then.

“*Mamma,’ I said one day. ‘I’ve been
figuring on this thing, and I’ve decided
we're in the wrong part of town. We ought
to have a shop in the smart shopping dis-
trict, where the big stores are and people
have money to spend.’

“But my mother was timid; she'd had a
hard life and was afraid of the high rents.

“*Some of these days you can start a
smart shop, daughter,’ she said, ‘but I’m
too old to change.’

“Then she died and I decided to take the
plunge. So I leased this shop on the corner.
There were two other florists in the neigh-
borhood—Greeks. One of them had paid
$8000 for his fixtures alone. Think of it!
And I hadn’t one-tenth that sum. When I
| incorporated I had a bank balance of
| exactly $500. So I decided to turn my shop

into a green bower of hanging baskets and

potted plants. Those were my fixtures. I'd
| keep them a month, make a quick turnover

and get in fresh ones, see? So I sold my

fixtures over and over and made money on
| them too.”’

Landscaping a Window Display

“Still, $500 was a narrow margin. Of

course, I couldn’t pay spot cash for every-

| thing. Some things I bought on credit and

took my thirty days. But there were cer-

| tain bills I paid right on the nail in order to

keep my standing good. Most important

of these was my rose bill. Everybody loves

roses, and I couldn't afford not to have the

finest quality, fresh every day, so I didn’t
crowd my credit there.

“Well, it was close sailing at that, but
almost right away my books began to show
a pretty brisk trade. I was up day and
night, for at first I couldn’t afford to keep
help. The hours in a florist shop are ghastly,
but what can you do? In comes a client
wanting a big funeral design at once, and
you sit up most of the night. Making
funeral wreaths is an ugly task, for the
wires are harsh and cut the hands. Really,
it’s a man’s job. But this business requires
brawn as well as brains.

** As the weeks went by, custdmers began
to come in with all sorts of demands. One
day the manager of the new moving-picture
theater dropped in to consult with me on a
decoration scheme for the lobby and up-
stairs reception rooms—something beauti-
ful, vivid and yet restrained, to be worked

(Continued from Page 38)

out with electric lights, fountains and Greek
urns. Well, that order netted me quite a
sum, besides a lot of advertising on his
tickets. Then one morning the vice presi-
dent of the bank walked in and asked me to
liven up his bank with potted plants. The
owner of a furniture store wanted help ona
big spring window display of wicker stuff.

“He said, vaguely, ‘Let’s have something
bright and gay. Potted palms, ferns and

“But I replied, ‘I don’t believe you want
all that perishable material. It requires too
much care. Suppose we use some of this
artificial green grass for a lawn, intersect it
with gravel walks, mark the corners with
artificial box trees to simulate a garden, add
a gay-striped beach umbrella with a green-
painted iron table and bench, and then,
facing the lawn, build a bungalow porch
and display your wicker furniture there.’
And so I composed his scene.

“Or again, the telephone rings. This
time it was a lady who had just moved into
a big new house. ‘I wish you’d come over
and tell me what to plant in my garden,’ she
aaid. ‘Sort of landscape it up for me and
give me an estimate.’”’

Bluffing a Bootlegger

“I jumped into a taxi, rushed out to a
friend who has a greenhouse, got his price
book and took it along with me.

“*Just look in this book,’ I said, ‘and
pick out what you'd like.’

“She waved it away. ‘Good gracious!
I don’t want to pick prices out of a book. I
want you to give me some good landscape
advice. We'll discuss estimates later.’

“So I went over the ground with her,
sketched out a garden, and that night I
checked up the whole thing with a good
garden book. In addition to these special-
ties, there were the functions, dinners,
luncheons, bridge parties, teas, formal and
informal, expensive and simple, which filled
my days so full that I couldn’t get to sleep
at night because of the ache in my feet. For
a while I was pretty close to a breakdown.

“ All through these first hard weeks I was
still carrying my mvther’s two-year lease on
the other florist shop which I'd had to close
out. In order to get rid of that drain, I
called up the owner of the place, ex-
plained my circumstances, and asked him
to release me. I offered him two months’
payment in advance, which would give
him time to find another tenant. He re-
fused. He was very nasty about it and
threatened to sue mamma’s estate. She
didn’t have much of an estate to sue—
still, I didn’t want a lawsuit on my hands,
so I turned the matter over to a lawyer.
He reported no success. It was pay or be
sued. Of course, it was unfair, for I didn’t
make that lease and I discovered also that
he was charging more for it than other
business places of like character in the same
block. In fact, he’d been stinging mamma
right along and she’d never found it out.

“Well, I thought over the situation and
concocted a little scheme.” She laughed at
the recollection. “The next morning I
dressed in my prettiest clothes and went
down to his office. Part of my strategy was
to do all the talking myself, not permitting
him a single word. I began rather meekly,
rehearsed the outlines of the case—my
mother’s death, no money, my struggles to
get started. I stressed the fact that my
mother had been a good tenant for years
and paid her rent on the nail.

“And then I wound up my discourse like
this: ‘Now, such being the situation, and
knowing you desire to do the fair thing, I
have two propositions to make. And I’m
going to state first the one I like best. You
dissolve that lease and I'll pay you for two
months’ rent.’”’

But the owner refused. Upon which, the
young flower merchant, having spoken him
fair to no avail, opened up with Proposition
Number Two.

October 17,1925

“T looked him square in the eye,” she
laughed, ‘‘and raced along with the set
speech I'd already arranged. ‘In case my
first proposal doesn’t meet your approval,’
I said, ‘I have still another, which perhaps
you'll prefer. I shall swear out a warrant
for your arrest as a bootlegger. I happen
to know you're selling liquor against the
law of this land and I can prove it on you
too. I’ve got eleven witnesses.’”’

You are to picture her, a slim, trim little
figure in a tweed suit with a gay-painted
scarf, her sports hat jammed down over her
curls, her cool gray eyes boring into the
bootlegger as she delivered her ultimatum
in a brave little rush of words.

“Of course,” she confessed, ‘“‘I hadn’t
any eleven witnesses; I just threw them in
for good luck. But I’d heard rumors in the
neighborhood of his bootlegging activities
and I thought I might bluff him into play-
ing fair. So I gave him twenty-four hours
to think over my two propositions, and re-
tired. I hadn’t more than got back to my
shop before he rang me up and accepted
Offer Number One. ‘On account of your
mamma’s being such a good tenant,’ he
said.”

And that finished the bootlegger. It was
just as well, for now the big Easter rush
was upon her—the season when florists
tumble into bed at cockcrow with their
boots on to snatch a moment's sleep. She
had plenty of problems to vex her. How
much Easter stock should she carry? A
newcomer in the neighborhood, she could
not accurately estimate how much floral
merchandise her patrons could absorb.
What was their saturation point? She did
not dare to overload too heavily, for her
margins were still very slim. Nevertheless,
being of a blithe, venturesome spirit, she
decided to take a gamble and play the game
for all it was worth, using caution and com-
mon sense. Then suddenly a bolt fell out of
the blue, and without a minute’s warning
ruin stared her in the face.

Fly-by-Night Competition

“The first thing I knew about it,’’ she
said, “‘was one late afternoon when the
florist down the street came rushing in ex-
citedly and exclaimed, ‘Have you been out
in the square?’

“*No,’ I replied. ‘Too busy. What’s out
in the square?’

“He explained. A man was unloading
a truckload of potted plants and Easter
blooms in a vacant lot overlooking the
square—a lot condemned by the city for a
bridge. This man was starting an open-air
flower market on that condemned lot. ‘He’s
going to sell Easter plants at one-third of
what we can afford,’ cried the florist. ‘He’ll
ruin us! So I came in to see what you
could do.’

“*Do?’ I repeated. ‘Why do you put it
all up to me? I’m a newcomer here. Why
don’t you think up something yourself?’
But he begged me to do something and
hurried out. You see,” she explained,
“‘some of my family having been connected
with politics in the past, I suppose he
thought I might have some influence.

“Well, that news took the heart right out
of me, and as soon as I had a minute free, I
ran around into the square. Sure enough,
there they were—two men unloading pots
and plants and flowers as fast as they could.
And with no rents, no overhead, why, of
course, they could skin us alive on price. And
yet it didn’t seem fair. We had to stay and
pay our bills the year around, while these fly-
by-nights jumped in, grabbed our market,
undercut us and then dipped out. I strolled
around and asked them, pleasantly enough,
when they were going to open. Tomorrow
morning, they said. I walked back to my
shop, boiling with rage. What right had
they to use condemned city property? Back
at my shop, I met the second florist coming
out of my door. ‘

(Continued on Page 62)

ANY a man, and woman, too, is bored with motoring

monotony. Manyhaveeven given up driving their own cars.

The Hupmobile Eight, with its eager dash and spirit, almost

always awakens new interest and enthusiasm. But see how they
tell you about it in their own words.

H. P. J. (on Vanes) iS @ prominent business man, accustomed to em-
ploy a chauffeur for his previous high-priced cars. He owns an
Eight now, and this is what he says:—

“I have never had the ‘kick’ out of motoring that I now get
out of driving the Hupmobile Eight myself.”

\y \y
This Eight is a revelation to seasoned motorists, because they
had given up hope of ever finding the kind of performance
and ease it brings them.

Andrew G. N. (,,an,,) just wondered to himself if the Hupmobile
Eight really could be as great as represented. He sought to
satisfy himself with a 200-mile run over mountains, country
roads and in traffic. When he came back, he bought on the
spot, and now says the Eight is a truly wonderful automobile.
\y \
We can’t blame a man today who is inclined to salt motor car
claims before taking, but Dr. R. D. McK. (,,\am..) says some-
thing we like to hear, namely, that the manufacturer's claims
for the Eight are conservative. He has driven cars for 15 years.

“No car,” he says, “has given me the all-around satisfaction of
my Hupmobile Eight Sedan.”

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

New Delight Every Moment
With the Hupmobile Eight

The ease of the Hupmobile Eight adds much to both the
convenience and the genuine pleasure of those who own it.

W.D.F (,,4n.) spends more time with his family this summer
because he drives an Eight Coupe. He says he now makes several
trips per week between his business and his summer home, instead
of only week-end trips as formerly, because he drives the Hup-

mobile without strain or effort.
\y WV

Road work—it’s a good descriptive term for many cars. It’s actual
work to drive them cross country. But it’s a different story
with the Hupmobile Eight.

Emil L. E. (,,2.,) travels between Cleveland, Detroit, Toledo,
Youngstown and other points within 200 miles of Cleveland.

“I've given up the trains in favor of my Hupmobile Eight Sedan,”
is what he tells us, “and I make all my calls now with the car.
No other Eight I have owned—and I have had several—com-

pares with the Hupmobile in performance or riding qualities.”
\ \
The man who knows cars is the man of all men to pass judg-
ment on the Hupmobile Eight—and nine times out of ten he
will agree with James H. G. (,,ém..) Mr. G. frankly says he
tried all the best cars obtainable and then bought a Hupmobile
Eight because he could not find a better car at any price. More-
over, it more than fulfils his expectations.
\y \
Try it once for yourself. You'll find yourself getting, once
again, the thrill you got from your first car.

Sedan, Now $2195; Roadster, Now $1795; Coupe, Two or Four Passenger, Now $2095; Dickey-Seat Roadster, Now $1895; Touring Car, Now $1795, F. 0. B. Detroit, tax to be added.

GET ACQUAINTED WITH YOUR HUPMOBILE DEALER

HUPMOBILE EIGHT

White dial $1.75
Radium $2.75

Tip-Top
the watch with
the wizard brain

Tip-Top the pockec watch
is the faithful sentinel of
time. He won't let time lag.
Won't let time run away.
The seconds, minutes, hours
pase under his hands in ex-
actly their appointed order.
Each winding surely keeps
him on the job 24 hours at
a stretch. You can treat
Tip-Top rough and he keeps
on guarding just as steadily
. . + though his soft, honest
ticking you can scarcely hear.

Tip-Top belongs to the
True Time Teller family.
Handsome octagon
shaped, with clear beveled
glass crystal, cubist numer-
als, pull-out set. And sturdy
about economy. $1.75 only,
or with radium luminous
dial $2.75. See Tip-Top at
your dealer’s.

See also another octagon
True Time Teller. Tip-Top
the wrist watch. The small-
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made. With silver dial
$3.75; cadium luminous
dial $4.50,

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Tip-Top the Octagon
wrist wah. Silver dial
$3.75; Radium $4.50

| Tomorrow at eleven.

| tion of our Lord.
| rang up change, was boutonnifre artist and
| lovers’

| strolled in.
| stamp girl and helped her with publicity.

THE SATURDAY

(Continued from Page 60)

“*Been out to see the square?’ he asked.

“** Ves.’ ra

““*What are you going to do about it?’ he
inquired anxiously.

“There it was again! ‘What are you go-
ing to do about it yourself?’ I retorted.
‘I’m not the whole Florists’ Association.’

“* We've got to dosomething right away,’
he urged. “They’ll kill our trade.’

“Well, I didn’t need him to tell me that.
But what could I do? I was rushed off my
feet and not a minute to think. About
seven o'clock I put on my hat and ran
around to the mayor’s house. His wife had
been kind to me. In my head was just a
ghost of a plan.

“*Mrs, Smith,’ I began, ‘I’ve come to
ask you a very great personal favor.’

“*What can I do for you, my dear?’

“*Tt’s about my florist shop. Something
has come up which is simply going to ruin
my Easter trade. I want to speak to the
mayor—just five minutes. Could you—
would you arrange it for me?’

“*Well,’ she began doubtfully, ‘the
mayor's dressing for a banquet. He's late
already. However, wait a minute. I'll see
what I can do.’”’

The mayor was kind and received her.
Rapidly she outlined the case.

“*'The man’s a squatter, Mr. Mayor, and
that’s condemned city property he’s on.
What right has he to come in and steal the
trade of respectable florists of this town

| who are obliged to pay rent the year around
| and meet their bills? I know the Florists’
| Association will resent this affair.
| not, Mr. Mayor, as if we were charging high
| prices; we're not. But it all boils down to

And it’s

who is entitled to receive the most consid-
eration—fly-by-night squatters or honest,
reputable citizens of this town. And I
thought perhaps you could use your in-
fluence j

“*T see,’ said the mayor kindly. ‘But I
can’t do anything tonight. I’m late al-
ready.’ He glanced at the clock. ‘But you
just step around to my office tomorrow
morning and we'll see what we can do,

”

An Unpublished Editorial

She hurried back to her shop, heavy-
hearted. Eleven! And that squatter
would be getting her trade right from under
her nose all the while she scurried around
baiting the trap for him.

It was the eve of Good Friday. Every
florist shop in town was open. Customers
streamed in thick and fast. All the world
wanted a nosegay to celebrate the resurrec-
She wrapped flowers,

confidential adviser all in one.
Presently the editor of the morning paper
He had known her as a thrift-

“*Well, how’s the florist trade?’ he de-
manded genially, as he ordered a potted

| azalea for his wife. ‘You seem to be doing

a land-office business here tonight. Look

| out the bandits don’t lift your till.’

“And it was right at that point,” she

said, “that I got my inspiration!”

The upshot of it was that she unbur-
dened her soul to the editor on the case of
the regular florists versus the squatters.

““* And don’t you think the florists have

| got a case?’ she demanded.

** You bet they've got a case.’
“*Well, then :
*** Just you leave it to me, sister,’ said the

| editor, still jovially. ‘This is my meat.’”

She explained she had seen the mayor,
who had promised to look into it tomorrow.

“*But if they don’t do something right
away it'll be too late.’

“*They’ll do something right away,’
promised the editor grimly.”

And he betook himself straightway back
to his office, sat down at his desk and wrote
a red-hot editorial defending the rights of
florists of his fair city against squatters who
jumped in with cut-throat prices. It was
loaded with buckshot, that editorial; and
having finished it, the editor reached for his

EVENING POST

telephone and rang up the mayor’s house.

is business was urgent, he said. It con-
cerned an editorial to be printed in the
‘morning’s paper upon which he needed the
mayor’s advice. He would like to read it
over the phone and see if the mayor thought
it advisable to print the same. He read it.
The mayor listened. Should it be printed,
the editor inquired. The mayor opined not.
The editor heartily agreed. Each bade the
other a cordial good night on the wire. The
editorial died in the egg.

Establishing a Vogue

The following morning quite early, be-
fore shoppers were afoot, the young florist
having business in the square beheld work-
men hurriedly loading aboard a truck the
selfsame plants they had unloaded the day
before. She watched them for a moment;
and then, breathing a sigh of relief, she
hastened back to her shop. Mr. Bertram
Atkey’s famous Miss Winnie O’Wynn had
nothing in the way of business acumen on
this rising young flower merchant of twenty-
three. First, she had sold the theatrical
manager. Then she sold hermamma. Then
she sold the American public to the tune of
sundry million dollars’ worth of thrift
stamps. Then, in rapid succession, she sold
the bootlegger, the editor and the mayor.
To sell her Easter blossoms was a very
simple affair, and she told me she had made
a clean sweep. The truth was, she was a
born saleswoman.

This little chapter of reality demonstrates
two truths: First, that it requires a knowl-
edge of higher, two-legged animal life as
well as of plant life to be a successful florist;
and second, that in business one is bound to
have enemies, but it is more than an even
stand-off if also one has friends.

Another woman flower merchant. Man-
hattan this time. America’s newest Gold
Coast, the Street of Millionaires, of marble
palaces and de-luxe apartment houses, of
promenaders who appear in the rotogravure
sections of the Sunday press, nouveaur
riches, vieux pauvres, movie sheiks and
princes of the blood, cake eaters and tame
robins, deflated aristocrats from Russia's
demobilized upper ten—proud and preten-
tious Park Avenue. To make good here
financially—and in this quarter little else
counts—is a very different proposition
from succeeding in a friendly small town
where everybody knows yeur uncles and
your cousins and your aunts, and who your
latest steady is. You can’t skip over to the
mayor's when you get into a jam, or confide
in the local editor. It isn’t done—not on
Park Avenue. But underneath these super-
ficial differences, the elements of success are
the same here as in any other street —initia-
tive, hard work and a well-furnished little
bean.

The interior of this particular florist shop
gleamed like a jewel box; paneled walls in
delicate hues, crystal chandeliers, gilt mir-
rors and a profusion of exotic, fragile flow-
ers. Behind a counter a high-priced bouton-
niére artist concocted an expensive orchid
trifle; another fashioned a vivid shoulder
corsage for an evening frock; stationery
and boxes were the final word in decorative
chic. It was the kind of shop to lure the
senses and at the same time to awaken a
premonitory pain in the region of the pock-
etbook nerve.

“We have to maintain these high stand-
ards,” said the owner, a young woman still
in her twenties, who had taken her practical
training in a metropolitan florist shop and
started a small try-out place of her own in a
quieter street before staging her début on
Park Avenue. “Exquisite perfection of de-
tail, combined with charm and originality of
design—-that’s the secret of success with my
clientele. They demand style, personality,
chic. It means a great deal to a woman,
when a man sends her flowers, to have
them arrive in a charming box, from a
smartshop, with filmy wrappings and dainty
ribbons attached. That’s part of her pleas-
ure, her surprise. It’s romance. Ask any
woman! So we try to have every order, no
matter how small, express distinction,

October 17,1925

charm. You see, what I’m working for now
is to establish a vogue—a vogue based on
those two qualities. I may not lay aside
much in the first few years, for all this at-
tention to perfection of detail costs money;
but right now I’m ‘uilding for the future.
Every order that goes out is under my per-
sonal supervision. For with flowers, just as
with clothes, what counts is the personal
touch—in a word, individuality.

“Becoming the vogue is a curious thing.
Nobody quite knows what causes the tide
to set strongly in one direction or what
causes it as suddenly to recede. Advertis-
ing—yes. That is, the right kind.” And
she laughed. “Also, the personal recom-
mendation among friends. Of course, after
you have achieved a vogue, everybody
comes to you—especially women. But
when you’re establishing a vogue based on
distinction, originality, something different,
you have to deliver the goods every time.
A failure at a big dinner party or wedding
may set the tide against you. For this
reason, when I have a luncheon or dinner,
I consult, of course, with the hostess on
color schemes, table decorations and light-
ing, and then I go over and superintend it
myself. For no matter how good your help-
ers are, it’s the final touch which makes or
mars the whole thing.”

Some “Don’ts’”’ for Decorators

“Then, too, to be permanently successful
in a business like this, which is semi-
artistic, you have to have a real flair for
flowers. Everybody knows that clumsy
fingers can spoil the loveliest materials in
the world. And with flowers, there must be
not only the utmost freshness, naturalness
and beautiful color combinations but your
design must have unity; it must hang to-
gether as a whole, produce a single effect.
Remember, too, in planning the table dec-
orations for a big dinner party, let us say,
to include the guests in your design. Some
women decorate a table without any thought
of the guests who are to sit at their board.
Taken by itself, the table may be lovely;
but with the guests seated, it gives a heavy,
overelaborated effect like a fat woman
loaded with jewels.

“The same principle holds true of big
functions, weddings and receptions. Plan
your decorations with a crowd in your
mind. Don’t set tubs of greenery on the
floor where guests will stumble over them.
Mass your colors high so they’ll create a
charming back drop for a roomful of guests.
Think of the thing as a stage. I’ve heard
women groan, ‘My rooms were so lovely
before the people arrived. But they just
wiped out my whole scheme! You couldn’t
see a thing.’ Of course you couldn’t. They
had forgotten that their floral scheme should
be simply the setting for their guests and
had made it the whole show.

“There's still another rule to observe in
floral decoration if you're after chic. Chic,
at bottom, means simplicity. It’s the fine
art of naturalness. Keep your decorations
simple, natural. The minute your flower
designs depart from simplicity, they be-
come artificial, set, and the very essence of
their charm has gone. Sometimes a design
which seems all right in your head doesn’t
work out well because it’s overelaborate.
It clashes with the essential naturalness of
the flowers themselves. Fortunately, ex-
cept at our funerals where we still cling to
them, we’ve got away from those big, stiff,
heavy, artificial designs into a simpler,
more artistic age.

“In creating a vogue, originality and
charm are not the only considerations.
The prices, also, must be moderate. They
must fit the average purse. It doesn’t pay
to charge extravagant prices. You're play-
ing then not to the many but to the few,
and a flower shop of this character cannot
be sustained by the few. So we depend on
volume of trade to float us, rather than high
rates. What makes this easier is that every-
body nowadays buys flowers. Men used to
send girls candy. Now they send them
shoulder corsages. The girls demand it.

(Continued on Page 64)

SATURDAY EVENING POST

Edwin Carewe presents “Why Women Love”

HERE are queer craft in this absorbing sea picture and queer craft

make good stories.

Picture a rum-running pirate, a lighthouse filled with explosive gas
and a beautiful girl risking her life to keep faith with the dead! These
are the factors that lead to a climax in the romance of Molla, played by
Blanche Sweet. She had given her word to protect the daughter of the

As the lighthouse burns
(circle) and (below)
Dorothy Sebastian and
Alan Roscoe in

“Why Women Love.”

Blanche Sweet
(left)

as Molla in“ Why
Women Love.”

“What Fools Men”

OSEPH GREER became a

power over night. The
same freak of fate that made
him a millionaire pauperized
him in an eye wink.

The story’s force lies in the
reaction these flickers of fate
had on his daughter—a chip
of the old block. Between
tides of hatred and love,
hope and disappointment
Joseph Greer marveled as
varying moods brought out
his own distinctive traits in
the romance of this unusual n.
girl. “T hate you.’

Lewis Stone, Shirley Mason, David Torrence and
Barbara Bedford are featured. Directed by George
Archainbaud with June Mathis, editorial super-

visor, from Henry Kitchell Webster’s novel,
“Joseph Greer and his Daughter.”

dead lighthouse keeper.
Through a series of nerve-
wracking experiences she
redeemed her promise in
this isolated castle they
called a lighthouse.

Robert Frazer, Dorothy
Sebastian and Russe!l
Simpson are also featured
in this picture, adapted
from Willard Robertson’s
stage success, “The Sea
Woman.”

You'll
Also Enjoy

‘Classified’ —The romance of the
working girl. Corinne Griffith's
latest and best, adapted from Edna
Ferber’s work and directed by Al-
fred Santell with June Mathis,
editorial supervisor.

“The Dark Angel” —The screen's
finest story of love and sacrifice
with superb acting by Ronald
Colman and Vilma Banky. Pre-
sented by Samuel Goldwyn as a
George Fitzmaurice production
from H. B. Trevelyan’s stage
success.

“The Half Way Girl’’— Doris
Kenyon and Lloyd Hughes in a
Far East melodrama that culmin-
ates in the explosion of an ocean
liner, one of the most thrilling
scenes ever filmed. Directed by
John Francis Dillon under Earl
Hudson’s supervision. From the
story by E. Lloyd Sheldon.

“The Knockout” —The life of a
ring champion as it’s lived, with
beautiful scenic backgrounds of
the Canadian lumber country. Di-
rected by Lambert Hillyer from
M. D. C. Crawford’s story “The
Comeback.” Starring Milron
Sills. Produced under Earl Hud-
son's supervision,

John Patrick talks to Bar-
bara Bedford in “What
Fools Men.’ (The two
scenes above show Lewis
Stone and Shirley Mason).

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Today 100

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

(Continued from Page 62)
| and the right kind of shoulder corsage
| makes an evening gown.
| “There's a difference in the buyers who
| come into my shop. Some spend extrava-
| gantly, some shrewdly, some because they
| love flowers and some because they love
| show. Women are usually thriftier buyers
than men. They want to be sure they get
their money’s worth. Some even count the
roses on me! Men are much more likely to
leave the whole thing to my judgment.
‘Fix up something pretty,’ they say; ‘some-
thing you'd like to receive yourself.’ And
then, of course, I work my head off to
please them—you know how it is when a
thing is left up to you. So generous-
mindedness brings its own reward. As a
rule, men—and they are the biggest buyers
except for functions and the like—use very
good taste in the selection of flowers.
American men, however, are not like for-
| eigners, who go in for very subtle and often
far-fetched symbolism, with all kinds of
deep inner meaning attached. White flow-
ers for purity, violets to confess they’re
sorry for some misdeed, mignonettes and
forget-me-nots for sentiment, and for love
the red rose. Not a whole bunch, mind
you! A single, perfect flower!"

The Universal Masculine Taste

“ Most men like roses—red roses. That’s
the universal masculine taste, and a very
nice taste too. But sometimes a customer
who’s been sending roses regularly to a cer-
tain address will drop in and say, smiling,
‘No, no roses today. She’s mad at me.
Let’s try something else—see if we can’t
sweeten her up.’ Or another will confess,
‘She's cold to me these days, a regular east
wind! Br-r-r! What do you advise to take
off the chill? Something extra special.’”’

In another city a woman florist has built
up a large business, based, likewise, upon
personality, good taste and unlimited ca-
pacity for hard work. Starting with a
meager capital of $1000, she was able, in-
side of a few years, to buy a new building
whose purchase price was $100,000.

“More and more,” said this artist in
flowers, ‘the women of America are becom-
ing interested in gardens; and that, of
course, develops their appreciation for
flowers. I teach them how to arrange their
tables and show them different color
schemes. For this purpose I keep on sale
in my shop a large variety of pottery, vases,
glass and table ornaments. Formerly
most of these articles were imported and
therefore beyond the means of the moder-
ate purse, but now they are being made in
this country and are both effective and
cheap, Take, for example, this sapphire-
blue glass set. A lovely low dish for the
center, a graceful figurine in the water in
which floats a single rose, with these four
glass candlesticks with the mermaid de-
sign—altogether it makes a delightful set
for & country house. And here are ame-
thyst and green. Italian pottery also is
very gay and charming for table decoration.
Silver is somewhat on the wane for informal
use, though, of course, it will never go com-
pletely out for formal functions.

“In lecturing before garden clubs and
women’s associations upon the elementary
principles of table decoration, and how to
combine glass or pottery with flowers, I
usually take along with me various types
of pottery and glass and work out different
color schemes before their eyes. People
don't use wild flowers here in America as
much as in England; and that seems a pity
to me, for there are lovely decorations
which can be made with them, especially in
country houses. Perhaps the greatest sin-
gle influence in arousing women to the
beauty of flowers has been the Garden Club
of America. Its shows, exhibitions, lec-
tures and awards have stimulated women
to take an interest in gardens, and I can see
myself how greatly they have developed
within the last few years in intelligent ap-
preciation and taste.”

Talks with other women florists revealed
| that in practically every instance they had

entered the business from the selling end,
with little training or scientific knowledge
of horticulture, depending for success upon
their personality, artistic perceptions and
good taste. These qualities they capital-
ized to their financial advantage, like artists
in any other field. Within recent years a
few women have studied flower growing
seriously in the state agricultural colleges;
and near Philadelphia there exists an ex-
cellent horticultural school for women which
trains them scientifically and practically in
this particular field.

Speaking upon the subject of training,
a well-known florist, who arrived in this
country from his native Austria as an im-
pecunious young student of horticulture,
without even a knowledge of our speech,
set about at once becoming a citizen, built
up a successful business and founded free
schools in floristry for both men and women,
said to the writer:

“In Europe women have been employed
in floristry ever since there have been flower
shops, for the average little florist or grower
usually has as first lieutenant either his
wife or his daughter. Perhaps this is the
reason why big flower shops abroad have
always employed women; they could draw
on the members of gardener families from
the suburbs or smaller towns. In America,
also, the littie grower who supplied a small
district not only with cut flowers but also
with young vegetables and stock for plant-
ing was forced to accept the help of his
womenfolk.

“But in larger cities the services of
women have been greatly restricted and it
has been only very recently that florists in
cities of the magnitude of Boston, Detroit
and Cleveland have engaged and trained
women in the trade. The only city which
really has not accepted women in the sales
department or as designers is, without
doubt, New York. Perhaps in our cos-
mopolitan town business life is different.
It is true that there are a few exceptions to
this general rule. Now and again we find
a woman florist who has achieved her posi-
tion through marriage, death or because
she was socially well connected; but these
instances are rare.”’

The Need of Brains and Brawn

“One reason why women were not em-
ployed in the larger institutions was the
hours. It spoiled discipline to have women
employes march in at 9 or 9:30 and leave
at 4:30 or 5. Florists’ hours are long, and
with few exceptions women demanded
special hours and attention; and even when
they were willing to work the extra time,
they were restricted by the labor laws.
Thus, in New York at least, they had little
opportunity to learn the trade from the in-
side and from the ground up, which is how
business recruits are made.

“Personally, I have had a very good ex-
perience with women, but my place of busi-
ness is exceptional; we open at 8 and
close at 6:30; and to my mind women, who

vel

al
ein

ORAWN BY A. 5. FOSTER
Absent-Minded Telephone Operator
Enjoys Spaghetti Dinner

October 17,1925

are more continuously active than men,
pay more attention to orders, have more
patience and are more exact in detail, com-
pensate by these excellent qualities for the
shorter hours.

“Hitherto, very few women have gone
into the florist business with the idea of
actually building up a future. But of the
few who have entered with such intentions,
most have made good in a large way. I
know an instance in which a woman took
hold of a run-down florist business and
within a few years had turned it into a first-
class success, She put into her work not
only brains but brawn. I recall another
who rose at four, and after attending to her
greenhouse heating, pulled a sled three
miles to the railway station in order to call
for boxes of cut flowers, pulled it back again
to her city store, returned to her green-
house, gave it her attention until eight
o’clock, when the hired man appeared, then
went back to her florist shop for the day.
That is the stuff out of which very often
success is made.”’

Openings in Floristry

“The Garden Club of America has been
very active in creating throughout America
an appreciation of flowers. Another con-
structive and far-reaching influence is the
work of the Federal Horticultural Board —
more particularly the act called Quaran-
tine 37. At first this act was much resented
in certain quarters, because some feared
that, with foreign importations curtailed,
there would ensue a dearth of plants and
flowers. No doubt, importers and some
nurserymen who specialized in the Euro-
pean products suffered quite extensively;
but the great majority quickly adopted na-
tive substitutes, which could be more easily
produced than the foreign importations.

“There is still considerable controversy
over the question. Some nurserymen,
florists and also women amateurs made
widespread complaint and lectured on the
subject.

““*Where,’ they exclaimed, ‘shall we get
our Cydonia japonica, our Azalea chinensis,
our English hybrid rhododendron?’ Some
of the nurserymen tried to prove how many
of our plants are Chinensis, Japonicas,
Africana, Asiatic or Bermudiensis; they
implied that nearly everything in our gar-
dens and greenhouses must come from
Siberia, India, Borneo, Sumatra or other
far-off places, the inference being that prac-
tically nothing beautiful was native to
America. I have very little patience with
that point of view. I myself come from
Europe. I have had European training in
horticulture, and therefore I know that
there is no other country in the world so
rich in native plant and flower life as is
America. A friend from Europe in the
business came to me and pleaded with me
three days to fight Quarantine 37.

“Why, man alive,’ I said to him, ‘don’t
you know that America is the most won-
derful country on earth for the florists?
Why, we've got everything here! Richness
of soil, unparalleled variety of plants and
chance for men to forge ahead. In Europe
they sit on you as soon as you make a little
success. Here you can climb. Instead of
fighting America, why don’t you move over
here and take advantage of its benefits?’

“Heretofore there has not been enough
incentive for intensive training in floristry,
because everything we needed was handed
te us from Europe on a platter. Our stock
was European; our growers were European-
trained. But with the necessity for pro-
duction in this country, both men and
women in the business see a broader field
and a brighter future. Like everything
else, improvements take time. Through the
ever-increasing activities of our colleges
and the continuous growth of horticultural
departments, many young women are now
being scientifically trained in the growing
of plants and flowers. And in this ever-
widening field there is plenty of oppor-
tunity for women as well as for men—
provided they are good florists and know
their jobs.”’

Rt — samen tena

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 6s
Es on

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THE SATURDAY

EVENING POST

October 17,1925

RIDING THE CIRCLE ON HANGING WOMAN

(Continued from Page 7)

“You-all” and address a lady as, much
to my astonishment, I was requested to ad-
dreas the Queen of England, as “Mam.”

Southerners and English. The early days
saw great English cattle companies formed
out here and many of the men who repre-
sented them still remain. I saw one not
long ago at the county fair judging work
horses; great anima!s with marceled manes
and feathered hocks. Yet he will be an earl
before long. Or rather he won't be, because
he is turning his title over to his son and
staying right here. And a fire this spring
destroyed a ranch house which contained
many gifts from Queen Victoria to the his-
toric family which owned it.

So one perceives that a social hour at
Birney may be a great deal more than it ap-
pears to be. Here is a tiny Western town,
so small that it could be built in the corner
of any moving-picture lot; a dirt road with-
out sidewalks, a dance hall over the store,
reached by a flight of wooden stairs out-
side, and a row of horses tied to a hitching
rail; within, men in Stetsons, chaps and
spurs move about and women meet and
taik and, perhaps, drink delicately out of
one of Aunt Mamie’s silver goblets.

Silver goblets? Why, certainly. They
were as black as ink, Aunt Mamie says,
when they came up out of that pond, but
they are bright and shining now.

Maybe we need to revise some more of
our ideas about this last pioneer country of
ours,

I know of one little white ranch house
where the water is brought up in a tin pail
on a wire trolley from the creek below, and
is served on a table set out with fine old
Georgian silver. And there is a genuine
Adam sideboard there which Eastern peo-
plealways want to purchase, and old painted
window shades that came over from Hol-
land when the Dutch discovered New York.

All the Comforts of Home

Carried in wagons over any sort of road
too; sometimes no road at all, They will
put anything in a wagon, these people, and
cart it along to make a home. And they
make homes tou.

It is haying time now, and only the other
day a man and his family engaged for the
haying on the next ranch to this. They had
lost their property in Montana in the re-
cent hard times and so they started out as a
family to earn,

They drove up in en ancient car with a
trailer, the father, the mother and three
young sens, And out of that car and trailer
they unpacked their household goods; a
phonograph, a cat, a dog, a coop full of

chickens, a canary bird and a sewing ma-
chine. The bunk house was old and dilapi-
dated, but in a few hours it was a home.
There were curtains at the windows and
rugs on the floor. The cat was on the door-
step, the dog was in the yard and the chick-
ens in a runway. And the canary bird had
been loosed for its two hours’ freedom a
day and was singing in a cottonwood over-
head!

The cow country still raises something
more than wheat and dudes, you see. It
raises men and women.

But it also still raises cows.

The evening after the invitation came I
had a heart-to-heart talk with Lizzie. She
and Dorothy had likewise been invited to
the round-up, and I was feeling Lizzie out.

“How,” I said tentatively, “do you feel
about cows, Lizzie?”

“I don’t care about them,” she replied
promptly, “and I don’t mean maybe!”

“But a horse can run faster than a cow,”
I argued, largely for my own comfort.
“‘And they said a cow-and-calf round-up.
That doesn’t include bulls.”

‘Still, I daresay the bulls will be hanging
round,” she observed pessimistically. “‘ They
generally are.”

Dorothy, on the other hand, was quite
placid about it. Living in New York, as she
does, she was entirely fearless,

“They never attack people on horses,”
she said, with an air of finality. “Of course,
if one is thrown ——— The thing to do is to
stick to your horse, of course.”

Well, that sounded simple enough at the
time, and on that basis it was decided.
None of us, you see, had ever heard of Pink
and his ability to turn on a dime and have a
nickel left over; later I was to ride Pink
and to be a party to this celebrated per-
formance of his, but I did not know this at
the time.

And so, on a soft summer day, we started.

There was nothing particularly dressy
about us as we left the ranch. Lizzie wore
a battered sombrero, riding breeches, boots
and an ancient leather hunting coat, into
the pockets of which she had stuffed every-
thing she had forgotten to put into her bag.
Dorothy was similarly equipped save that
her pockets held two packs of cards and a
bridge score. Personally I had abandoned
a brilliant red neckerchief for one of a color
more soothing to the bovine eye, and car-
ried a stub of a pencil and some sheets of
paper.

“If we get through all right,” I said,
“there may be some material in it. After
all, what do we know about our beefsteaks,
except that they cost too much?”

“Well, we’re going to know more,” said
Lizzie gloomily. “But if you ask me, I'll
take my beef hereafter on my plate and not
on the hoof.”

Our saddles were lashed to the running
board, our bridles lay at our feet in the rear
of the car. We stopped in Sheridan for ice-
cream sodas, on the theory that we were
going into a dry and thirsty land, and then
struck out for the Montana line and what
lay beyond.

The Prairie Dog’s Habits

Almost at once the country began to
change. The mountains receded and we
found ourselves in a maze of low and barren
buttes, among which the road threaded
through empty country, except where at
long intervals a rough track struck the
main highway, and where at such intersec-
tions there were mail boxes. But not the
neat boxes of the Eastern rural free deliv-
ery. Mounted on a post at intervals of a
few miles would be, sometimes, a corru-
gated zinc washtub, set on its side against
the weather, or a rough wooden box, and
even now and then a tin gasoline can with
the end cut out. Sturdy little points of
contact with the outer world, to many a
rancher in this back country his three-times-
a-week trip to these small outposts is the
only break in the dull and arduous routine
of his days.

A post card from Aunt Sallie down in
Colorado, even a catalogue from a mail-
order house, are like sounds to break his
silence and to remind him of a distant life
from which he is cut off.

Prairie dogs everywhere. Sitting up on
top of their burrows, their tiny tails wag-
ging up and down instead of laterally, and
their bark rather like the squeaking of an
unoiled gate. It was hard not to run over
them as they dashed across the road; my
heart was in my mouth, for I have a weak-
ness for prairie dogs. Indeed, I bid fair to
become one of the world’s great experts on
prairie dogs, for I own two of them.

Thus I am able to state that it is the cus-
tom of the prairie dog to live in the wood
bin beside the fireplace; to make its pri-
vate and particular home in a small wooden
box with a hole cut in the side, and to close
the opening to this box after his entrance,
with a teacup; that by preference he lines
his nest with hairs from a fine polar-bear
rug, that he sharpens his front teeth on the
legs of wicker chairs and whenever possible
on the fingers of the human hand, and that
while he will eat oats and bread, he greatly
favors the sunflower seeds a parrot spills
on the floor, candy and the icing from cakes.

Yes, I have a parrot. He was wished
on me recently. He has a cold and fishy
eye, but after I heard him sing ‘‘Good-by,
my lover, good-by,” in a sort of adenoidal
soprano, I simply had to have him.

Well, to go back, prairie dogs every-
where, and once in many miles a home-
steader’s cabin, mostly abandoned; a one-
room log shack falling to ruins, a tiny barn
built to house hopes that never materi-
alized, and here and there evidences of
what was once a plowed field, the only
crop now the ever-present sagebrush.

But as the road winds on, the country
improves. It grows more rugged, and the
brilliantly colored buttes show unexpected
trees. It is like Arizona. Now and then one
glimpses the Tongue River, and here and
there ranch houses surrounded by green
and irrigated fields. But all about and
above them lie the dry hills, almost the last
open cattle range in the country.

And then Hanging Woman Creek, and
the ranch house, and a_ hot-and-cold
shower, and supper.

The next day was given over to getting
ready for the round-up. Near the corral,
Dad had set up the cook tent and the mess
wagon, and was experimenting vith a new
stove. He exuded all that day a spicy odor
of boiling ham and an air of joyous antici-
pation. For Dad dearly loves a round-up,
and he loves to cook.

Out here a man numbers cooking as a
part of his necessary accomplishments; a
considerable part of his life is spent on the
range—not cooking, but mountain—and
the efficiency of the outfit depends largely
on its food. But then, what doesn’t a man
have to know out here? He has to be able
to shoe a horse in the field without most of
the necessary adjuncts, he has to be a car-
penter, to repair his own automobile, to be
a hydrostatic engineer of sorts, to cook, to
break horses, to farm, to handle wild cattle,
in emergency to do minor surgical opera-
tions, to build and keep in order his wire
fences and his gates, to raise his own vege-
tables and to slaughter his own meat.

And by that same token, on the evening
of that day, we slaughtered. We had to
have fresh beef for the round-up.

“How’s your shooting?’’ Little Bones
asked me casually after supper.

“Pretty bad,” I replied modestly.

“We're going up to kill a beef steer,”’ he
said. “I thought maybe you'd like to shoot
him.”

“Shoot him!” I echoed faintly.

I had read, by and large, a good bit
about the slaughtering of beef animals, and
I had an idea one knocked them on the

(Continued on Page 71)

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PHOTO, COPYRIGHT OF CHARLES J. A8L OEM, PLTORFORK, WYOMING

A Leone Cowboy Bringing in a Herd of Cattie Over a Snow-+Covered Range

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

| AUTHORIZED | |

“» AUTO

RE- BNISHING, ze

TION,

. Wherever you drive you will
find Duco Refinishing Stations

. 1600 of them in this country,
others in foreign countries—the
Duco International Service.

. Duco, whenproperly applied,

There is only ONE Duco — DU PONT Duco

is not injured by heat or cold, or
rain or snow, or mud or sand, or
gases, oil, salt air, alkali, or even

hasty cleaning.

Beautify enduringly...
the expert Duco refinisher
will tell you how

FE will say—“Off with every
particle of your old-time fin-
ish! Then—on the bare metal
—smooth and tenacious coats of
du Pont under-surfacings. .. .
Then— Duco—lustrous, beauti-
ful and enduring.”
And he will be right. That is the
one sure way to add the full and dis-
tinctive value of Duco to your car.
° = .
Sometimes Duco is applied over
the rubbed down surface of your
present finish.
While this cheaper method can-
not provide the full measure of
Duco endurance and beauty, still,

if properly applied, the result is
superior to any old-time finish . . .

New or old, your car deserves Duco
Insist upon the genuine

It does not chip, or peel or crack

. its lustrous beauty is enduring
Duco was created and is produced
only by E. I. du Pont de Nemours
& Co., Inc., Chemical Products

Division, Parlin, N. J.

October 17, 1925

&

od
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:
‘(eg
~
a
:
:
7 &

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

i;Beaut-

Plus Finer Performance
Plus Lower Price

Aot One+But All Three

well HE OLDSMOBILE SIX is a
beautiful car. The tens of thou-

= sands who have seen it during the
past four weeks will testify to that.

Its distinctive beauty is revealed at a
glance. The simple, graceful body
lines are enriched by warm two-tone
Duco color effects. The upholstery
and every detail of appointment reflect
a quality that distinguishes it in any
company.

Here is Greater Beauty than appears
on the surface—for Oldsmobile quality
extends to every hidden part of the
chassis. And this Greater Beauty and
Higher Quality become all the more
impressive when you consider the
much Lower Price at which this re-
markable car is offered.

Only the vast facilities and natural

economies of a great organization
make possible such a combination of
quality in a car: Greater Beauty, plus
Finer Performance, plus Lower Price

—not one, but all three.
i:

To appreciate this latest Oldsmobile
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—how smoothly and quietly the motor
purrs at all speeds—how easily it steers
—how quickly it can be stopped—you
must actually take the wheel and go!

Let this automobile tell you its own
story — because to appreciate fully its
many superiorities you must actually
experience them. Your Oldsmobile
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never before has a car so moderately
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Touring $875, Coach #950, Sedan #1025, f. o. b. Lansing, plus tax

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

At left, Gold Seal Inlaid, Dutch
tle Pattern No. 7151-3

All Gold Seal Inlaids
are guaranteed to give
satisfaction when laid
according to direc-
tions, For your own
wotection be sure to
[ok for the Gold Seal
pasted on the pattern
or the name “ Nairn”
printed on the back. <

-

Lan

» 7
~~ *
wv «

~
£ ey

Above, Gold Seal Inlaid,
Belflor Pattern No, 2047-1

Ask your dealer to
show you the newest
Gold Seal Inlaids in
the popular Dutch
Tiles with patterns
“straight with the
edges.’" To be had
in Gold Seal Inlaids
alone. Write for the

Dutch Tile folder.

This design is Gold Seal Inlaid, Universal Pattern No. 56-93

It’s one of the newest residences in fashionable Great
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outlook over the sparkling waters of Manhasset Bay.
The moment you enter you realize what care has been
taken to put only the best and the most beautiful into
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No ordinary flooring, for instance, would have done
for that spacious, sunny kitchen, So Nairn Be/flor Inlaid
was chosen— the newest and loveliest of permanent floor-

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Even the artist who painted this picture exclaimed
at the delightful play of color-tones in the tiles, an
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Do you realize that there's not the slightest reason to
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All Gold Seal Inlaids are wonderfully durable. They
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October 17, 1925

x

Above is Gold Seal Inlaid, Dutch

Tile Pattern No. 51-150

Below is Gold Seal Inlaid,
Dutch Tile Pattern No. 7150-3

Step into this lovely home in fashionable Great Neck

Ii

(Continued from Page 66)
head, or something. Anyhow it was scien-
tific, and every ounce of the carcass was
used, for food and glue and buttons, and
soon. And all the profit the packers made
was the buttons. Or was it the glue? But
to go out in cold blood and shoot one!

However, the creature was going to be
shot, and for some reason everyone seemed
to think I was the logical person to shoot it.
So at last I took the rifle and we started
out. On the way I deliberately hardened
my heart. I counted all my old scores
against the race of cows. The time one
chased me along a country lane because it
didn’t like my parasol; the other time when
another one flew after my Airedale dog and
the idiot of a dog ran to me for protection.

And I think—I still think—it would have
been all right when we got there had not
the creature stood gazing at me rumina-
tively. And it looked exactly like a woman
who had lived next door to me when I was a
little girl, and I couldn’t do it; it would
have been murder.

So Little Bones dropped on one knee and
shot him. It was neatly done, and the steer
just fell down and lay still. Percy ran over
and cut his throat, and within a minute
they were skinning the hide off.

Somewhere Lizzie had secured a folding
seat. Like the story of the little boy who
said the spinal column was a long thin bone,
your head set on one end and you set on the
other—this seat consisted of one rodlike
support, with a point stuck into the ground
at one end and Lizzie at the other. And as
the proceedings went on, this seat began
visibly to wabble. It was not until the
enormous stomach was rolled out, however,
that Lizzie rose feebly from her perch and
moved to a distance.

“T am perfectly all right,” she said in a
small voice. “I was just thinking about
tripe, that’s all. I used to be fond of it.
Tripe and onions, you know.”

She shuddered and moved away.

The hide lay on the ground. Thus
stretched out it looked enormous, but it is
only worth a dollar and a half today. The
boys will sell it for that and later buy back
its equivalent in leather for fifty dollars or
so. Made into shoes or suitcases, it will
bring several times that amount.

Raiding in Pairs

Long knives now, and the beef being cut
into segments for transportation. The
dogs are being fed choice bits from the
head; the rest is being placed in the meat
sheet, a canvas as large as a tent, later to
be stowed in the mess wagon along with the
stove, Dad’s bed, the bags of potatoes, the
condensed milk, the canned stuff and those
fresh vegetables and fruits which had been
added in deference to our Eastern stomachs.
The real round-up dinner consists of beef-
steak with plenty of gravy, potatoes,
canned corn or peas, sirup and, as a great
delicacy, sugar-coated prunes.

It was the next day in the hills that I saw
Lizzie sitting on the ground with her plate
in her lap, surveying a slice of roast beef
thoughtfully. Then she shoved it gingerly
to one side and began on potatoes and
beans.

The outfit started out in two divisions.
The first included the mess and bed wagons,
which went by a roundabout route, up the
east fork of Hanging Woman; and the
cowboys and the cavvy, which started up
Roberts Gulch, went along Timber Creek
and then over the divide.

But before we mount Pink and start off
with this second division, let us study this
little Wild-West show of ours. The disci-
pline and organization of a cow outfit in the
field is almost as fixed as that of a military
unit. It must be both mobile and self-
supporting, and it must work without fric-
tion. And whether the outfit is large or
small the procedure is the same.

Take the wagons, for instance. The cook,
in our case Dad, drives the mess or chuck
wagon. And that mess wagon is worth
more than a cursory glance. Just inside the

THE SATURDAY

end gate stands erect the original kitchen
cabinet, with a front which lets down to
form a table, and with numerous compart-
ments for dry groceries. In the body of the
wagon is packed the steel camp range and
the stovepipe, the cook tent, the meat in its
heavy tarp covering, kitchen utensils, a
spade for digging out the water springs,
boxes and bags of provisions and the cook’s
bed roll.

The bed wagon follows it. It is driven
by the nighthawk, that unfortunate who
sometimes drives the wagon all day and
always guards the horses at night, and who
is lucky if he gets a cat nap when the ani-
mals lie down between midnight and two
A.M.! This wagon contains the round-up
beds for the men, which have twelve-foot
strips of tarpaulin, one-half to be doubled
over the blankets within against rain or
heavy dew, the rope for the rope corral, and
the nighthawk’s saddle. Along its end gate
is frequently built the rack to hold the
branding irons.

Earning Their Forty Dollars

But this division of the unit is still incom-
plete. Of what use is a wagon train unless it
gets to where it is wanted? By custom im-
memorial, the wagons are led by a pilot, a
cowboy on horseback who knows the coun-
try. This individual has certain specified
duties of his own. He picks out the camp
sites, opens and closes all gates, and, riding
ahead of the mess wagon, generally clears
the way for it. And although it is the duty
of the wrangler to carry water for the cook,
it is the pilot’s job to dig out and clean up
the spring ready fer him.

The second division consists of the loose
horses, or cavvy, and the cowboys. Extra
horses must be carried always, as riding two
circles a day may easily involve fifty or
sixty miles of hard going. Up and down the
mountainsides, into creek beds and out, the
horses work hard and must be changed
often. And even with a small outfit like
this of ours, only sixty horses in all, it is
impossible to carry any grain for them.
They must graze at night in pastures where
the July sun has burned the grass and the
creeks are almost dry.

This division is the outfit proper. It
throws off the cattle from the high mead-
ows into the bottom lands and bunches
them. It drives them in to form one vast,
nervous and milling herd on the top of
some piece of high ground, for cattle are
snuffy in low places with timber above
them; it cuts out the cows with unbranded
calves, and later it ropes and brands
them. And at the beef round-up it
bunches the steers for market and drives
them slow, endless miles to the railroad,
through days of noise and thick dust clouds
and nights of constant watchfulness, And
when it is apparently all over, the cars
waiting and the cattle finally being pointed
into the pens, it is this outfit which sees the
switch engine come along, shriek horribly
and dissipate their herd to the four points
of the compass and all the intermediate
directions.

Anyone, you see, who thinks the cowboy
does not earn his forty or forty-five dollars
a month and board knows very little about
it. In the old days it was easier for him.
When he came in from the range he shod his
horse, cleaned up, drew his pay and was
free to go to the nearest town and spend it
after his own fashion. But today he does
his share of the ranch work also; breaks
horses, builds and rides fences, wrangles,
perhaps, even tries his unaccustomed hand
at a bit of farming. But he will never be a
farmer. If he could farm from the back of
a horse he might succeed.

It was with this division of our outfit,
then, that we started out early that morn-
ing. Even earlier the wagons had pulled
out, taking with them our tents, in which
were packed our extra garments, our cold
creams and mirrors, our woolen pajamas
and toothbrushes and combs, where, so far
as I am concerned, most of them rested un-
disturbed until our return! Our nine cow-
boys rode ahead; they seemed to be ina

EVENING POST

hurry, and in the dust cloud behind them
we trailed along.

I have a faint recollection that in some
upper meadow we picked up our forty-odd
loose horses; hazily, too, I recall seeing
Lizzie and Dorothy at the start. But from
that time on for some hours I was entirely
absorbed in a personal matter of my own.
The matter was this: Were Pink and I going
to see this thing through together, or were
we not? Pink! The Artful Dodger was the
only name for that cow pony, velvet-footed,
strawberry-colored little son of the lightning
that he was.

“He’s a great little cow pony,” said
Irving—who is Little Bones—eying him
proudly. “Why, that horse can turn on a
dime and have a nickel left over.”

“I dare say,” I observed rather tartly.
“But how about his turning on something
and having me left over?”

“You just hold on,” he said easily, “and
leave the rest to him. Just indicate what
cow you want and he’ll get it. You don’t
have to worry.”

“But I don’t want any cow,” I said. “I
can’t think of anything I want less.”

However, as his animal, Alice Ann, at
that moment gave every indication of
breaking in two—which is an entirely too
light-hearted term for bucking—I said
nothing more.

Pink and I went on. We climbed and
climbed. Overhead was Poker Jim Butte,
named for that historic gentleman who
played poker all winter without any luck
and in March drew a pair of sixes and lost
all he owned on them. Slowly we moved
on and up; across créeks, up great sweeping
upland parks bordered with trees, where the
antelope lie in the heat of the day and the
coyotes skulk at dawn and evening. Sixty
horses and, perhaps, fifteen riders, and
eighteen miles to climb. On and up. The
creeks end and we are in the high country.
Over across are the buttes which mark the
Indian reservation, glowing pink in the

midday sun. We are hot and dirty, for |

there has been no rain and the cavvy ahead

stirs up clouds of dust. On and up. Wild |
horses, called broomtails, come careening |

over the meadows, stop to look at us, then

wheel and disappear over a ridge. On and |
up. Pink has picked out a bunch quitter |

of a blue roan and goes after him; in the

wild dash I lose my Stetson, my hair net |
and hairpins and most of my sense of per- |

sonal dignity, but I keep my saddle.

Still Going On and Up

I begin to feel an affection for Pink, so |

gallant, so soft of foot, so—wel, so damna-

bly efficient. The same sort of affection the |

head of the family used to feel for a pair of

ferrets after they had stopped biting holes |

in him.

Midday and boiling heat, and Irving be- |

side me once more on Alice Ann. He leans
over and pats the creature’s neck.

“ He’s tricky,” he said, “but he’s a good

horse.”
“Why is he called Alice Ann?’’ I ask.

My horsemanship is strictly limited to sit- |
ting my saddle under favorable conditions, |
but he does not look to me as though he

should be called Alice Ann.

“Because that’s his name,” says Irving |

calmly.

It was, I think, the next day that Alice |

Ann, having submitted tamely enough to

being roped and saddled, attempted to dis- |

lodge Irving from the saddle in a series of
wild rushes, squeals, rearings and kicks.

And it was then I learned that Alice Ann |
was really Alizan, and that for several |
years before Irving began to gentle him he |
was a famous bucking horse in this part of

the world.
But that is getting a trifle ahead. We are

still, as I have mentioned before, going on |

and up. Pink has abandoned the blue roan
for a buckskin loafer; my face is swollen
with sunburn and my throat cracked with
thirst; Lizzie is humped over the saddle
and Dorothy has lapsed into a sort of fata'-
istic lethargy. We see a few cattle staring
at us curiously, but we pass them by. Time

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72

A New CAKE)

that makes
your mouth water

THE SATURDAY

to get them when this valley is being worked
later.

The cowmen eye them.

‘Look pretty good,” they say, and move
along.

Then at last the top of the world and a
dip just beyond it. And in that dip are Dad
and the wagons and the cook tent. Water
from a good cold spring, too, and cold

| cream if one would go to the tent and hunt
| it out. But I am past caring for my skin.

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Let the children eat all they want,
for molasses is rich in the mineral salts
that doctors say they need. Brer Rabbit
cakes and desserts provide the ideal
combination — something delicious
that is good for you.

All I want is to lie under a tree on a cool
bank, which keeps perfectly still and neither
walks, trots nor canters, and drink water
and drink and drink.

Dad was well set up. A long white tent
covered the mess wagon, the stove and a
long folding table. The steel range was
banked with earth around its base and an
asbestos ring protected the tent where the
stovepipe went through it. Working at
the board in the mess wagon was Dad him-
self, in spotless white and rolling out pie
crust with a beer bottle filled, he assured
me, with spring water!

The Hard-Working Horses

For unlike Charley Russell, the cowboy

| artist, Dad can make pastry. Charley in

the early days was cooking with an outfit
and decided to try his hand at pies. The
next day two of the dogs were dead and
most of the men and the other dogs were
laid out good and proper.

“So the old man,” says Russell, “he
came around to me, gertle-like but firm,
and he says: ‘You're a good boy, Charley,
and we all like you. And you're a fair-to-
middlin’ cook, too, and I’m not complainin’.
But in the future I'd be thankful if you’d
stick to meat and potatoes, and for God's
sake keep your hand off pastry!”

But we were not ready for Dad. The

| first duty on the range is to care for one’s

horse. One is a tenderfoot indeed who does

| not know how to unsaddle, for instance,

and where; to lay the saddle on its side, to

| fold the saddle blanket with the moist side

in to keep it soft, and to place the bridle
neatly on the top.
But the round-up has its own convention

| of unsaddling, at that. With the arrival of
| the bed wagon at the camp site, our wran-
| gler had at once set up his rope corral.
| Tying the center of a long rope to one of

the wagon wheels he had carried it out on
crotched sticks until he had a circular rope
inclosure with an open end, or gate, at one
side. Our first duty, tien, was to unsaddle
outside this impromptu corral and to line
up our saddles neatly near the entrance.
But that day our horses were turned loose,
and we stood by to watch them.

It is a poor heart which does not swell a

| bit when tired horses, freed of saddles or of

packs, lie down to roll their weary bodies

| on the ground. And these Western horses
| have so little and work so hard; they must
| climb, carrying their burden of pack saddle

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| or of man, up cliffs I would not dare to try
| afoot; must slide, with slipping rock and

treacherous shale, down steep descents
with every muscle tense. Only the pam-
pered few can have grain; most of them

| have only grass and that what they can
| pick up for themselves. Yet so strong is the

strain left by the early explorers, with their

| Spanish or Arabian animals, that these

grass-fed range horses can outwork and

| outlast our Eastern Thoroughbred stock.
| Only the fit have survived and bred, and
| the result is an extraordinary vitality, plus
| the intelligence of all creatures who have
| largely to fend for themselves.

So we stood by to watch them, first as

| they drank and then as they rolled. Stand-
| ing in the little creek, some drank sedately;
| others, like naughty children, splashed and

pawed the water, then lay down in it. Their
thirst quenched, they rolled on the ground,

| scratching their sweaty, saddle-worn backs.

Their sixty sets of legs were in the air at
one time, all colors, all lengths. The hot
sun shone on their gleaming shoes, clouds
of dust rose above them, and like a chorus

| of relief came to our ears their gruntings,

EVENING POST

snorts and plaintive whinnyings. Yes,
there is something wrong with us when it
does not mean anything to see a tired horse
roll upon the ground.

And now we have set our stage; the long
cook tent, with the stovepipe rising through
an asbestos ring in the canvas, and, at a
discreet distance, our own tepees, white—
and hot—in the sun; down the hill a bit,
near the creek, the rope corral and the bed
wagon; wocd being cut and water drawn
near by; and in the midst of the herd
mounted men getting ready for the night.
They drive the other loose horses to a green
meadow near by, where the nighthawk will
watch them, moving them slowly along to-
ward higher ground and napping in his
saddle when they lie down, between, say,
eleven-thirty and two. He will choose for
this purpose a horse which can see well in
the dark.

All night horses are carefully chosen for
this ability, for there is a great difference in
horses in this regard. I have ridden them
when I could not see the ground beneath
their feet, only to have them pick out the
trail unerringly. But once or twice I have
had animals who grew confused, who stum-
bled and hesitated, conveying to me their
own helplessness and insecurity.

A horse is practically never wrong in his
sense of direction. Again and again I have
given one his head to test this out. But his
instinct ends there. Unless he knows the
road by experience, has actually traveled
it, he will often lose it and start directly
back, to bring one up unexpectedly at the
edge of a rim-rock cliff, perhaps, or against
the wire with no suspicion of a gate.

Only yesterday Prince and I had an
argument on this matter. We had circled
the top of the Red Cafion and were some
thousand-odd feet above the ranch when
twelve o'clock came. Now, at twelve o'clock
hay is spread in one of the corrals for the
horses. And Prince looked at me and said
flatly that it was noon and lunchtime.

“Very well,” I said. “Try it and see
what you can do.”

So I gave him his head and he threw his
ears up and started for the top of the cliff.
Maybe he could have made it; I don’t
know. But I could not, and I told him so.
And he sulked all the way round and down!

Getting Up in the Morning

So below us the night horses are being
hobbled and the preparations for the next
day begin. Some of the men ride off to take
a sort of general survey of the situation;
Burton comes up on the little devil of a
buckskin which provided considerable ex-
citement during the whole period of the
round-up. Burton is a “‘rep’’—that is, he
represents another outfit, his own, which
also runs cattle here. As any round-up
gathers in all the cattle to be found and
then cuts out and brands its own calves,
Burton is here to look after his own inter-
ests, to mark his own if any turn up, and
generally to lend a hand when it is needed.

A cowboy from another outfit rides by,
on his way over the divide, and announces
a small forest fire a few valleys over.

“How far?” I ask languidly.

“Ten miles or so.”

I subside again upon my bank. It is too
far; let it burn, or let somebody else put it
out. Only let me stay where I am, to drink
the lemonade Dad has made in a great tin
pail, and to sit quiet on something which
neither walks, trots nor canters.

Late that night I sat up in my tepee and
made careful notes on the events of the
day. My light was a candle stuck in the
top of an empty tomato can, my desk was
my pillow, held on my lap. Somewhere in
the bedding beneath me were my toilet
articles, my fresh riding shirts and my pa-
jamas. But I did not hunt them out. After
a time I took off my hat and my boots and
spurs and, putting my desk under my head,
blew out the candle and went to sleep.

“Roll out!"
A stentorian voice was calling it over and
over. I opened my eyes on black darkness;

October 17,1925

it was raw and cold and my blankets felt
damp to my hands as I drew them up around
me. I closed my eyes again and went
to sleep.

Sometime later Dorothy spoke to me ina
strong firm voice. I opened one eye and
looked at her. It was gray outside by that
time, and I could see that she had brushed
her hair and her teeth and was looking
smugly virtuous.

“What time is it?”

“A quarter tofour. Hurry up!”

So I sat up in bed, pulled on my boots,
shoved on my hat and was dressed. I did
crawl around on my hands and knees look-
ing for my toothbrush, but my efforts were
half-hearted and I did not find it. Who ever
heard of brushing teeth at a quarter to four
in the morning anyhow?

“I’m coming,” I said querulously. “‘ But
I haven’t been up so early since the last
time I was up so late.”

I stood up. My boots were damp and
shrunken from the dew; unreal shadowy
figures were standing around the cook tent,
morose and dreary, and drinking hot coffee;
and running in with the cavvy was Pink,
undoubtedly rested after his sleep of from
eleven-thirty to two, and ready at any
minute to turn on a dime and have me left
over.

The Start of the Round-Up

Four o’olock. The horses had been driven
into the rope corral, and the work of catch-
ing and saddling began. The wrangler held
the gate, that loose end of the rope before
referred to; under his direction only two
men worked inside, and they worked
quietly and cautiously. No wild throwing
of the ropes now, but an easy cast from the
ground. The noose rose and settled on the
neck of the animal wanted. The horses
milled, first this way and then that, and out
of the mist and dust the captured bay, or
roan, or buck, came mildly enough to be
saddled just outside.

The first pink of the dawn touched
Poker Jim; the old gambler had drawn a
flush at last. The line of saddled horses
grew; cinches were tightened, and chaps
and spurs buckled on, followed by careful,
easy mounting by the cowboys as they
tested out horses, never too well broken
and always fractious at this early hour;
then full dawn, the soft creak of leather on
leather, the faint musical jingling of spurs
and the dull thud of horses’ feet on the dry
meadow as we moved off.

Percy was the leader. Riding the high
circle, at the top of each valley he deployed
two men, one to throw the cattle down
from the hillside, the other to bunch and
hold them at the bottom. Technically, I
believe every such bunching is a round-up,
but the real round-up of the morning comes
when all these smaller herds, driven in, are
gathered together at some designated spot.

The men took the orders as they came,
gathered up their reins, spurred their
horses and disappeared. We rode on and on.
After what I figured: was high noon and
lunchtime, I asked Lizzie to look at her
wrist watch. She did so and then held it to
her ear.

“It’s stopped,” she said.
o’cloek.”’

But it had not stopped!

Underneath me Pink moved sedately
along. He had the air of an old hand at the
business and of being slightly bored at the
preliminaries. And I was growing increas-
ingly easy. We had seen no cattle; maybe
I was not to see any cattle. It was a fine
morning; the sun warmed my back, and
Pink’s delicate tread was like a rocking-
chair beneath me. I yawned. And then
somehow or other I was riding down a
valley with Irving, and Irving was glancing
right and left for cattle, and Pink was
gathering himself together and getting
ready. Ready for what?

“Wha-what am I to do?” I inquired in a
thin voice.

“You just sit tight,” said Irving com-
fortably, “‘and let Pink do it. He knows.

(Continued on Page 74)

“It says six

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

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THE SATURDAY

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| ving did the work and I rode along.
| would ride up a coulee or small valley above

all.”
Four hours later Irving and I drove our
herd up the long slope to the rendezvous.

| There on the top of the hill were the other

bunched cattle, milling wildly and emitting

| a sound not unlike the roaring of an angry
| sea. Our bunch saw them and tried to turn;

in a second Pink started for them, and then

| and there did I give such an exhibition of

pulling leather as I hope not to give again.
He whirled and ducked, he flew and leaped,
and to his back, helpless, I clung and
prayed. And he did the job. He rounded
up that stampeding herd and pointed it
where it should go. And when it was over I
let go the saddle horn, took my first full
breath in five minutes and straightened my
hat.

“Hey!” called a cowboy, as we moved
on, “that’s working them! How'd you like
to join the outfit?”

“Oh, I'm learning,” I said composedly.

I moved on. Lizzie and Dorothy were
already back and stretched out under a
tree.

“How far did you go?”

“Fifteen miles or so. How about you?”

“Oh, Irving and I took the big circle.”
Very, very casually. ‘Thirty miles or so, I
believe.”

Gently and gingerly, I got off Pink and
laid me down on the ground. It was soft.
It was wonderful. I closed my eyes. Bed-
lam was raging all around, but I cared not.
Cows were shrieking for their calves and as
many calves were crying for their mothers.

| Two great Hereford bulls were facing each

other, heads down, and pawing up small
sandstorms of dust with their forefeet.

| Frantic animals were trying to dart out of
| the bunch and being run back by watchful
| herders.

Under ordinary circumstances I should

| have climbed the tree above me, but these
| were not ordinary circumstances. Let Pink
| step on me if he wanted to; let the bulls
| come and fight across me; let the whole
| darned herd stampede and run over me, I
| lay on the ground with one of Pink’s reins
| under my head and closed my eyes. Some-
| time later I raised my voice above the tur-
| moil and asked Lizzie the time.

“Ten o'clock,” she said,

Ten o'clock, and I had lived a lifetime!
At first it was comparatively easy. Ir-
He

the cattle and then with a shrill cry start
them down to me. It was my business—and
Pink’s-—-to see that they did not run past

| me, but headed on in the direction we were
| going.

Heading Off the Bunch Quitters

But as time went on and our little herd
increased, so did the attempts of the bunch
quitters. With sudden resolution, they
would dart out from the rest, turn and beat
it. And if anyone believes that a two-year-
old steer cannot run, I am here to set him

| right. Naturally, the only way to head him

off is to run faster than he does, and here

| Pink got in his best work. Seizing the bit

Ducking

Smoking

firmly in his teeth and disregarding my
pleas to let Irving do it? Pink was off. Into
washes and out again, skirting gopher
holes, jumping rocks, Pink carried me madly

| after his quarry. And in the end the crea-

ture would succumb; would turn meekly
back after the others and I would release

| my death grip on the reins and mop my
| streaming face.

10c in the
foil packet
15c in the tin

As time passed on, however, I grew more
cheerful. No cow as yet had pointed at me
with dire intent her long and deadly horns;
no bull had lowered his head and roared.
To be honest, I had seen no bull at all. To
all intents and purposes our herd was
purely a matriarchy and our calves were
fatherless.

And then, suddenly, the worst came.
Irving, above me in a valley, called that
there were cattle hidden in a dry creek bed
below. The creek bed was like a cafion;
Pink slid and scrambled down into it, and

EVENING POST

between its high and unclimbable banks we
moved along. The cattle were hidden be-
yond a bend, and around this bend we went.

And there, without warning, we came
face to face with an enormous bull. He
looked as large as a locomotive, and he was
barring the way with his wives and children
behind him.

The moment he saw me he !owered his
head and began to paw the ground! And
there we were!

I attempted to turn Pink around, but he
refused to turn. Instead he tried to make
for the creature, and it pawed the ground
again and stared at me with red and hor-
rible eyes. I moistened my dry lips and
spoke to it in a small faint voice.

“Go on!” I said. “Get along there!’’

“Just an inch nearer!” said the bull in
effect, “Just one inch!”

“Irving!” I called feebly. “Irving!”

But he did not hear, and Pink was tug-
ging at the bit, and the cows had set up a
sort of melancholy chorus. I tried other
tactics; I spoke gently and kindly.

“Go along,” I said. “Nice old fellow!
Go along, like a good boy!”

Cowing a Bull

I even whistled; I cannot really whistle,
but I have a small faint pipe I use to call
the dogs, and when I could pucker my
trembling lips I tried that. But the whistle
after all did the work, for while it had no
appreciable effect on the bull, Pink took it
as a signal and dashed at him. And the
craven creature instantly threw up his tail
and started off. Some few minutes later I
rode up out of the creek bed, driving my
monster and his harem before me. And
Irving, waiting on the bank, surveyed my
catch with approval.

“Made quite a pick-up,” he said.

I nodded.

“Took a little time,” I said easily. ‘“That
creek bed’s a poor place to work.”

Our bunch was augmented gradually and
as it increased it grew more unwieldy. Al-
most any cover served as a refuge. But I
had a lesson in patience from Irving as he
followed them into the bogs and creek bot-
toms, the thorny thickets and swales where
they tried to hide themselves.

“Get along there, little feller,” he would
say to some fugitive ia his soft Southern
voice, Never did he frighten them, or push
them too fast. He watched the calves, too,
and in that last four dreadful miles of creek
bottom, bog and heavy low-growing trees
he worked them through without haste and
without the loss of a single animal.

Out of ail the other valleys, converging
tothe high rendezvous, moved other bunches
and other cowboys. The broiling sun glared
down, the calves bawied, the mothers
wailed, the horses worked and sweated.

And at last ten o’clock and dinnertime,
and just a third of the day’s work over.
Another circle in the afternoon and brand-
ing after that, and then—and only then—
the tarp bed on the ground and sleep, until
a voice roars the call to “Roll out” and,
long before day, another day begins.

We branded that evening. That is, the
men branded, Pink and I remaining inter-
ested onlookers outside the log corral.
Once indeed we took a part; a calf escaped,
leaping the gate and starting with extreme
rapidity for parts unknown. In a weak
moment I started after it, but the last I saw
of it it was headed for the Cheyenne Res-
ervation and like the darky in the war, if
it had had a feather in its hand “it would
have flew.”’ Curiously enough, a calf which
loses its mother will always go back to the
last place where it suckled; as the mother
does the same thing there is practically no
such thing as a lost calf.

But, generally speaking, we were on-
lookers. At this particular spot there was a
rough log corral, and the branding was
somewhat simplified by that fact. Corral,
or no corral, however, the procedure is es-
sentially the same.

While we had been having supper, then,
at four o’clock, the herders had been busy

October 17,1925

cutting out the cows with unbranded calves
and driving off the rest. Gladly enough they
went back to their coulees and creek bot-
toms again, leaving behind them those who
were to have their baptism of fire. This
smaller herd, lowing and anxious, now
awaited us at the top of a hill about two
hundred yards from the ancient log corral.

The branding irons had been brought out
from the rack in the bed wagon, and inside
the corral a fire had been built. These irons
generally consist at the branding end of a
quarter circle, a full circle and a bar. When,
as with the Rocking Chair outfit, a special
brand is used, that outfit carries it, and the
others, picking up a Rocking Chair calf and
mother, do their best with the tools at hand
to etch a rocking-chair on the calf’s side!
Thus, picking up a Skull and Crossbones
calf, we did a fair job with the full circle for
a skull and two bars for the crossed bones.

But although the corral was ready for
the cattle, the cattle were not yet in it. And
this proved to be a difficult and delicate
operation. Wide-spreading jaws or wings
of logs reached out from the inner circle,
and the cattle moved docilely enough until
these were reached. Behind them the line
of mounted cowboys, moving slowly, was
closing in on them. Ahead of them was the
opening into the corral. The lead cow
would stop, gaze about and nine times out
of ten make a bolt for freedom, and the en-
tire bunch would follow suit. But the inex-
orable line of horsemen waited behind, and
gaps were instantly closed. As the jaws of
the Y narrowed, the men were riding shoul-
der to shoulder, and the cattle were quietly
pushed inside the corral. Then the logs
were placed across the entrance and the
work began.

The Camp Asleep

One man roped the calves from his horse
and dragged them out. Two other men
waited to throw them and a fourth brought
the branding iron. The mother’s brand was
called and the calf similarly marked.

That night I was too weary to sleep. I
sat in my tepee as before, the pillow on my
knee, my candle in its can perilously near
me, and made my notes. Then I blew out
my candle and sliding along the ground at
last found that slight hollow for the hip
bone which is my camping substitute for
springs and hair mattress.

The outfit slept. Somewhere to the east
of us, the nighthawk was watching the
horses, grazing them slowly along and nod-
ding wearily in his saddle as he rode. Two
to a bed for warmth, the cowboys lay in
the open, their gear piled beside them on the
ground. The night wind blew through the
pine trees. And over the hill a coyote
barked. From the cook tent below there
came a regular, sonorous sound like the
slow monotonous beating of a war drum
far away. But it was not a war drum; it
was Dad, his long body rolled in his
blankets, comfortably and unconsciously
baying at the moon.

The round-up goes on. Day after day,
other valleys are circled, new cows and
calves bunched and driven out. The camp
moves, the mess and bed wagons jolting
along until the pilot has picked out a new
camp site and dug out the spring.

Behind the outfit, as it moves, are left
the marked and counted cattle. They
move placidly down the slopes, the bulls
as haughty as ever, the cows each guarding
a newly branded and slightly dazed calf.
They will not be disturbed again until the
oeef round-up in the early fall. Then will
come the cutting out of the meat animals
and the long drive to the railroad. The
men will ride in clouds of dust; the cattle
will move slowly, roaring and calling, ready
to stampede at any surprise. At night the
guards will slowly circle them, singing to
keep them quiet and riding out a bit to
light their cigarettes. And then, after
days and davs, the railroad and the cattle,
pens. And Percy, perhaps, pointing them
in, and once again, as always, the switch

(Coatinued on Page 79)

Vy

sanialiiiatioe

© T. B. M. Co.

For your Ford car:

5 minutes of this
every 500 miles

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

eliminates needless repairs

A Ford, like any other car, is about as good as the
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It pays you back in kind. Treat it right and it treats
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This is not an idle statement.

Statistics prove it.

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Neglect

For a wide investigation among garages and repair
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parts are due to one cause. Simply lack of proper
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Engines are seldom neglected. For they are easy to
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A new easy way

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Every 500 Miles

Do this every 500 miles. Nothing will do more to
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“Reg. U. S. Pat. Of"

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

October 17,1925

IFE and

Third Installment of the
ETTERS of |!VORY

EXCERPTS from the true story of \voRY’s adventures with the v. 8 ARMY and NAVY

OAP

its encounters with WILD ANIMALS afd its contribution to ROMANCE

N a

night far out at sea we were

certain dog-watch one
gathered around the good old java
pot swapping yarns. There were the
bosun, and the bosun’s mate, and a
seaman bold, and me. The seaman
bold, unfolding to stretch his legs,
delivered himself of the following
chant:
‘A boy stood on the burning deck,
The ames abe
He took a cake ¢

vory Soap
4nd washed Aimself

ashore.”

The original author of the chant
is unknown, but the “me” of the
story is Byron T. Mills, of San Fran-
cisco, who was in the Navy during
the war and for a period after the

Armistice. He tells the following
Story, also:

“My ship was sent to Hamburg
or a special commission. When we
found that there wasn’t a decent
cake of soap in the whole port, we
almost wished we had shifted our
coal for a cargo of Ivory. We took
our ship’s supply into the town, and
they almost mobbed us. Cakes that
had cost us seven cents brought a
dollar. I hired a big luxurious limou-
sine for a whole afternoon for one
cake of Ivory. I met a Hungarian
countess who wanted me to marry
her and take over her castle in Buda-
xest—I couldn’t see it, but I gave
ver a cake of Ivory and she seemed

just as happy as if I’d accepted her
proposal. If I ever lease myself out
for another war, I'll pay high for the
Ivory Soap concession.”

IVORY buys laces and a
MEXICAN we/come

**') N February, 1924,” writes a mem-

ber of the U. S. Naval Reserve
Force, “ the U.S. Destroyer ‘Sumner,’
off the west coast of Mexico, got or-
ders by radio to put into Salina Cruz
—that tiny agglomeration of huts
and tents on a slope of sand which
was then in the center of the revo-
lutionary area. The U, S. landing

party arrived on the heels of the
evolutionary Army which had
raided the townsfolk six times. Noth-

ing usable was left except, as we

soon discovered, some exquisite na-

tive laces which had beén success-

fully hidden from the marauders.
“The customary haggling began

forthwith. But money was worth-

less to the natives—they couldn’t

buy anything with it. They were

ragged, and they were dirty—great

Scott, how dirty they were!
“Then occurred

one of the anomalies

of history—they

called for Ivory Soap!

For Ivory they would '

sell anything. Some

of the finest laces

ever brought into the

United States were

bought for a few cakes

of Ivory. And some of

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

head to toe, he grinned, ‘Well, old
duck, 99 44/100% pure again!’

“I carried that same cake of Ivory
to Belgium with me after the Big
Show blew up and finally gave what
was left of it to a little Belgian
‘femme de chocolat,’ who said,

‘Ah, savon Américain pour
souvenir?

“the Ivory Soap disappeared. Where
had it gone? The next morning we
missed another Ivory cake. Then
we found where it had gone. The
chipmunks had taken it! I was quite
worried about them until I remem-
bered Ivory was 99 44/100% Pure.”
“Safety first!” cry Nebraska chip-
munks. And the chipmunks in New
York State echo, “Safety first!” —
“Last year,” writes Mrs. D—,
“when we closed our camp on Good-
year Lake for the winter, we left two
cakes of Ivory and two cakes of
cheap perfumed soap in the bath-
room. During the winter chipmunks
got in and ate the Ivory, but would
not touch the other. So I guess
your advertisements must be true
—99 44/100% Pure.”

Do not wed for money, Friend,
For money hath a sting,

Do not wed a pretty face;
"Tis but a foolish thing.

Do not wed for place or fame;
‘Twill disappoint thy hope.

But when thee marry, choose the girl
Who uses Toory Soap,

HIS MOTHER’S

last gift
: | “HE following story comes from
the mountain country of Vir.
ginia, and it is about an ancient
storekeeper.

Many years ago, when Ernest
Adams, a tried-and-true Ivory Soa
salesman, was making trips shiniah
his territory in a piano-box buggy,
he seld this old storekeeper an order.
As he was about to leave, his cus-

tomer said to him:
“Some time, Mr. Adams, after
I've got better acquainted with you,

the officers and men . ‘ ye itty) &

Elephants and a poem

oo
found special welcome in \¥ a a
the homes of local digni- > <4 ' yee

taries by the tactful presenta-
tion, to the daughters of the
house, of a cake of Ivory Soap.”

Our correspondent adds: “ Ivory
Soap has been with the Navy so
long that it is regarded as a standard
canteen article. The Naval man
knows that Ivory is recommended
by his doctors and surgeons be-
cause he finds it in almost exclu-
sive use in the ‘sick-bay.’ Of several
popular soaps, Ivory is in demand
by perhaps more than three-fourths
of the crew.”

The ex-Army adds its
IVORY story of the war

eyHE Army refuses to take sec-

| ond place in the war-story of
Ivory. A former lieutenant sends in
this lively item:

“There were fifteen inches of mud
from a three days’ drizzle in that
slithering lizard’s paradise known
technically as a rifle-pit. A floating
object touched my leg. I got hold of
it, washed it off, and found myself
gazing at a half-used cake of Ivory
Soap. Visions of a clean-up party
and a shave at the old iron tub
back of the hill!

“Curses! It slipped. But presently
I saw it poking a white corner up
through the black soup. Before it
could escape again, I carried it in
both hands back to the tub, stripped,
took a shower in the rain, shaved
with Ivory lather, washed my teeth
with Ivory foam, and then turned
over the precious cake to Happy
Zeke, who repeated my performance.
And as he stood there in his shiver-
ing nakedness, Ivory-lathered from

Apparently Ivory is as good as
money almost anywhere in the world
—to buy laces and limousine rides
and ladies’ smiles, and eggs—

A lieutenant of the Rainbow Divi-
sion and his top sergeant traded a
cake of Ivory to a French peasant
woman for two dozen fresh “oofs.”

“Look,” said the lieutenant, “this
is lucky savon. As long as it floats
you can be sure les Américains will
win. If it ever sinks—like this, see?
—you'd better pack up and leave la
belle France, toot-sweet!”

They left her watching Ivory con-
fidently afloat. Ivorv still floats and
the old woman is still safe in a belle
France!

- Ku CAN’T fool
a chipmunk, either!

PPARENTLY _ Ivory,
when available, plays
an Important part even
in the life of discrimi-
nating chipmunks. In
fact, it seems to be the prime winter
delicacy of the chipmunk race, as
witness two letters:

Our little friend Francis Throw, of
Kimball, Neb., went camping with
his parents in the mountains last
summer. On the washstand behind
the cabin were two cakes of soap,
one pink, and one Ivory.

“One afternoon,” writes Francis,

with a MORAL

“ PEAKING of wild animals, here
\ is another story, from a railroad
official:

His four-year-old grandson was
watching a circus parade with his
mother. Along came the elephants.
Little Dicky pointed to the curved
weapons carried east and west of
the leading pachyderm’s trunk, and
asked what they were.

“Those,” replied his mother, “are
his tusks—they are ivory.”

“Oh!” exclaimed small Dick ex-
citedly, “then he has his soap with
him, hasn’t he?” "

Now for our poem! It came to
the Ivory biographer’s desk not long
ago, without a name, written on an
old memorandum. Notice the quaint
Quaker sound of it—can it be that
some good Quaker lad, disillusioned
as to the superficial values of pure

romance, finally identified cleanli-
ness as the one all-symbolic value of
life, and then penned this pwan of
exultation? We leave the answer
to you:

I want to tell you a story.”

Years passed. At every visit
Mr. Adams asked for that story, but
the old fellow refused, until one fine

day when the rhododendrons were
in bloom and memories lingered in
spring fragrance.

“Come with me,” said the store-
keeper mysteriously, leading the
way to a dimly lighted room behind
the store. From a cobwebbed corner
he drew forth a battered leather
trunk whose musty contents finally
yielded an oblong object wrapped
in an old piece of white silk.

“I treasure this more than any-
thing I own or have owned,” said
he. “It was the last thing my
mother gave me more than forty
years ago when I left home to seek
my fortune.”

And with that he handed Mr.
Adams what is probably the oldest
cake of Ivory Soap in existence.

Thus I vory is, as you see, a true cos
mopolite, and has a share in the lives
of all sorts of people the world over.

Procter & GAMBLE

by The P robe ¢ ( lacinnaty

The dainty new cake of
Ivory, made especially
for the face and hands,
just fits feminine fingers
and the toilet soap
holder. It costs 5 cents.

Guest

IVORY

For the bath, most peo-
ple prefer the medium-
size cake of Ivory. “It
floats,” of course, so you
never have to hunt soap
on the tub-bottom,

Bai A

This economical cake is
for general laundry and

Lgundry
IVORY household use—it costs
: ¢ very little more than

pease & __y | harsh soaps and protects
both hands and clothes,

Tissue-thin flakes of
Ivory for the safe, quick
cleansing of all delicat

fabrics, for dishwashing
(to protect hands), and

for shampooing.

78 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST October 17,1925

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(Continued from Page 74)
engine will come along and whistle, and
there will be panic and a stampede.

Yes, it’s a great life, and it is still going
on out here. The cowboy is not passing,
nor will he so long as there is left to him a
bit of open range. Discouraged he may
be, but he is no quitter. If he is pictur-
esque, he is picturesque only in the line of
duty. His chaps protect his clothes in
swales and thorny brush, his Stetson shades
his eyes and its heavy high crown protects
his head from the burning sun, his necker-
chief is less trouble than a collar and tie.

He is a specialist in his own line. And
it is no child’s play, this business of his.
Take the matter of the nights alone, when
the beef herd is being rounded up for
shipping in the fall. The cattle are nervous,
After months, or years of freedom, they
are close herded, and they are filled with
suspicion and fear. At six o’clock, the
second day shift turns them over and the
slow movement to the bed ground begins.
A few men graze them along to some high
selected spot, and at eight the night guards
go on.

It is a spooky business, this night guard-
ing; almost anything will stampede the
herd and wreck the work of days. Not
only that, but it is a desperate business to
be caught by a stampede, horse and rider
swept along in the darkness by a thousand
or several thousand maddened on-rushing
animals.

Nightguarding a Rock Pile

The night guards work in two-hour shifts,
two at atime. They circle outside the herd
in opposite directions, frequently singing
to quiet it. Even such a matter as lighting
a cigarette is a ticklish one. The guard
turns out a bit from the herd to do it, and
closes one eye so he may have a good eye
ready to see in the dark the moment his
match goes out. Never can his vigilance
relax. Perhaps a storm is threatening and
each deadly horn carries a glowing ball of
light upon it! And then let the storm
break, and the man who lost a bass drum
isn’t in it with the night guard who loses a
thousand or so of beef cattle.

One night guard I know had this happen
to him: He rode around and finally he
located a group of them huddled together

THE SATURDAY

on the crest of a hill. All night long he
rode around them in the storm, singing
soothingly to quiet them, until the break
of day showed them to be a heap of gray
volcanic rocks!

A highly specialized business. How
would you lean if you were swimming on
horseback across a swift and flooded river?
Upstream, wouldn’t you? I know I would.
But you and I would be wrong; you lean
downstream to counterbalance the pull
which threatens to take your horse’s legs
from under him. And what would you do
if, when you had piled your clothes on the
saddle and were swimming across holding
to your horse’s tail, the horse got away on
the other side? But this requires no
specialized knowledge! Suppose again,
like Percy, you were pointing a bunch of
steers and injudiciously roped a coyote?
And the whole angry thousand of them took
after that coyote?

Ho hum; it’s a great life if you don’t
weaken.

The cowboy passing? Nonsense. There
is a lot of bosh being talked about it, and a
lot of sickly sentimentality about our
rodeos. With the single exception of bull-
dogging steers, the rodeo simply represents
a life that is going on today all over the
Northwest. And I have even seen it
necessary to bulldog a steer in order to
throw him, when there was no room for a
man and horse to operate.

The worst horse in any rodeo is no worse
than the buckskin Burton rode at this
same round-up. Every time he was
mounted, he went crazy, and a crazy horse
loose in such surroundings is an exciting
matter. He is blind with rage, and no one
can tell in what direction he is coming
next. The other horses share his excite-
ment; the milling in the corral increases.
The saddle animals get out of his way, as
do the men. There is nothing to be done;
either the man on his back rides it out or
he does not.

Take Alizan, with a rope around his
neck to supplement the usual bridle. Once
or twice he, too, went on a man-killing ex-
pedition; but notice the curious humanity
of these cowboys. Irving rode it out on the
rope rather than on the bridle, to save the
creature’s mouth! And when it was over
he got off and rubbed the demon’s head!

EVENING POST

“You're all right now, little feller,
aren't you?” he said gently and mounted
again.

And take Jack. I find I cannot write very
much about Jack. You see, it was only a
week ago. His horse came back alone from
the early morning wrangling, and when
Reed found him he was lying unconscious
on the grourid in the big upper meadow.

They carried out a mattress and brought
him in, but his back was broken.

Ah me! Sad things have been happening
to us this year. First, there was Johnny
but we try not to think about that, and
then Bruce, and now Jack.

A Cowboy’s Prayer

But we cannot change things. So long as

the beef herds continue to graze in their
quiet valleys we shall have the cowboy.
The wagons will pull out, the pilot at their
head; the nighthawk will keep his solitary
vigil; and men will don their chaps and
spurs, and mounting their uncertain horses,
round up the cattle that we may have our
beef. It is their life. They want no other.
Bruce Brockett, our cowboy poet, nursing
his badly broken leg in the hospital at Sher-
idan, speaks for them, inarticulate as they
are, when he says:

When the last bit of range is fenced up and |

gone,
And progress has had her say;
When the last ol’ moss horn is put on the cars,
And the honyok* at last gets his way,

When the last ol’ broomtail is drove in from |

the hills,
And the last long circle is rode,

When the last guard is stood with shivers and

chills,
When the last herd’s ready to load,

When the last gun is toted on the hip of a
“hand ”
And the last cowboy yell is yelled;
When the last outlaw horse in all the land
Is cornered, 'nd beat, ’nd corralled,

When the last chuck wagon is under the shed

And the last cow-punch draws his pay;
I'll be ready, O Lord, and if I ain't dead,
Please take me anyway.
*Honyok. A homesteader.

PHOTO. FROM F, REDFIELO

Turner Falis on Honey Creek, Arbuckle M

Pet Removing starter screws with »
{ “Yankee” Quick-Return Spiral
Ratchet Screw-driver No. 150-4

One-handed

you can quickly

drive (or draw)
screws in tight
places

You know where
starter screws are~
away back where it
is awkward to work.

That's the kind
of a job where you
want the ‘*Yankee”’
Quick-Return Spiral
Ratchet Screw-driver
No. 130-A,

Put the blade in
the screw slot, and
the spring in the
handle holds it there.

You just push on
handle.

The live spring
brings handle back
for the next push.

The long reach
prevents barked
knuckles.

‘6 r S99
YANKEE
Quick-Return
Spiral Ratchet
Screw-driver
No. 130-A

Right-hand Ratchet,
Left-hand Ratchet and
Rigid. Three sizes of
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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

SHORT TURNS AND ENCORES

And twelve mail-order catalogues,
And ads that celebrate
Refrigerators, college toga,
And Florida real estate.
Morris Bishop.

The Salome Sun
Lone Bone Joe, the Icicle Kid

ONE BONE JOE HAGERMAN, the
icicle Kid, who lives up on Lone Bone
Crick, inside the Artie Circle near some
Town I can’t Pronounce, writes in Worry-

| ing Me about my Frog, same as a Lot of

'

It Clamps
Eoacyuiady

Positively protects your eyes. The
lamp for convenience and comfort.

other Folks who haven't got any children of
their Own. It’s likewhen somebody Adopts
an Orphan and everybody in town trys to
Tell them How To Raise It. There Aint
Nobody need worry about My Frog not
getting Took Care of OK or feel Sorry for
Him. He might be 7 Years Old and not
Learned to Swim yet, but he’s Happy and
Having a Good Time and getting plenty of
Centipedes and Scorpions and Lizards and
Vinegarones to Eat—and what a Frog aint
Ever had he Can't Miss, so Why Worry
about him not being able to Swim as !ong
as he can Drink out of a Canteen?

Lone Bone Joe’s letter come all Froze Up

| but I have set it out in the Sun and thawed

| Reads something like this.
| Bone Joe talking Now, and not Me, you
| understand, starting right Next to Here.)

by tt ~
Clamp it on bed

or chair~or
anywhere.

Write
by it ~
Clamp or stand

iton desk or type-
writer table.

by it ~
Clamp it any-
where on sewing
machine, table
or chair,

Shave
by it —
Clamp it on the

mirror or hang
it anywhere.

Adjusto ie
now £395 9 J

Make sure you get the genuine

Adjusto- l ite. Quaranteed for five years.

in U. 8S. A. and Caneda: Solid Brass, $3.95,

Bronse, Nickel and White Enamel Finish,

$4.45. West of Missivsippi, Rockies and Mari-

es, 25 additional.

141-151 & Pith St, Brooklyn, ©. Y.
ALSO

Our new invention Adjusto-Lite, Jr.

—Clamps everywhere on your car,

Perfect for camping, touring; fer working on

the car. Plugs im dashboard. Both hands

free to work. West of the Mississippi, $3.25.

Adjusto-[ite Jr:

time Provin

S W. FARBER,

| Where it is Cold.)

| here all right.
| Great Slave Lake, which will make his

it out and as near as I can make out, it
(This is Lone

Dear Mister Editor Dick Wick Hall—
whose Durn Frog can’t Swim a Tall, Why
in the name of Old Sam Hill don’t you Show
that Toad (This is me talking Now for a
minute. I would Shoot Joe for that, Calling
My Frog a Toad, if he wasn't so far away up
(Joe is Talking Again
now) you've got a Will? There aint no
Sense giving in to him because he’s just
Pretending he can’t Swim. Could I gét hold
of the Cussed Bloke (You'll get hurt yet,
Joe) I'd make him either Swim or Croak.
(I'd like to See you do it.) I’ve took THE
Post for a bunch of Years and I'm getting
hot around the Ears; I just keep on a tak-
ing it in to see if that gosh Durn Frog can
Swim. To relieve my great Anxiety, just
send the critter along to me—in fact I'll

| guarantee the Freight and before he leaves

he’ll Learn to Skate. He may think Sa-
lome hot at Night—well, he’ll get a Chill up
I'll make him jump into

Green little Belly Ache, and in Summer

(Continued from Page 34)

Days, for exercise he can Peel the Icicle
spears for pies and in winter time for Extra
Work, find the square of the Artic Cire. He
might perhaps help me of Nights, tying
snaps on the Northern Lights and seeing
that Polar Bears and Seals come in at Reg-
ular Times for Meals. Just tell that little
sonofagun to leave the Train at Edmon-
ton—Jump a Thousand Miles toward the
Polar Star—and my Ice Palace aint very
Far—and I'll be there waiting up for him
and Bet my Stake he'll Learn to Swim. If
you agree to this just Let Me know and
Drop a Line to Lone Bone Joe. (Joe Stops
Here.)

I ain’t going to Quarrel with Joe about
my Swimless Frog because I can tell from
the Way he Bites his Pencil when he writes
that he is a Rough Neck the same as Me,
and I'll bet that a Photograph of the Back
of Lone Bone Joe’s Neck would look Like a
Bird’s-Eye View of the Grand Canyon, with
all the Furrows Ete. in it and I could sell
Postal Cards of it to Tourists and they
wouldn’t know the Difference. If it wasn’t
so Far Away and so Cold up there, I'd like
to go up and Visit Joe in July or August and
camp on Lone Bone Crick and eat some of
His Sour Dough Biscuits and have him help
me Learn the Frog to Swim. We would
have a Devil of a Good Time I’ll Bet.

Well, Old Timer & Rough Neck Lone
Bone Joe—Good Luck to You Up There in
the Snow—and if it ever Gets Warm on
Lone Bone Crick, just Drop a Line to the
Frog and Dick, and we'll Come Up and Sit
and Swap Lies while the Frog gets Fat on
Icicle Pies. Yours until the Frog Learns to
Swim. —Dick Wick Hall,

Editor & Sun Soaker

Ballade of Certain Games

WATCH the world with an aging eye;

I knew the era of ping-pong’s sway,
And here I hardily prophesy—

The cross-word puzzle will pass away.

You hint of wits that have gone astray
And point to puzzles in all gazettes?

I humbly beg you to tell me, pray,
What has become of the mah-jongg sets?

I well remember when none could try
For social favor without croquet.

But now! Just so in the by and by
The cross-word puzzle will pass away.
But folks sit up till the east is gray

To weave together the verbal nets?

October 17,1925

They punged till struck by the morning
ray. .
What has become of the mah-jongg sets?

Diabolo was the “final ery,”
And put-and-take was the game to play,
But even as these were forced to die
The cross-word puzzle will pass away.
You note how lavishly people pay
For dictionaries? Your youth forgets
The ivory tiles of yesterday.
What has become of the mah-jongg sets! ?

Envoy

Young man, you think I’m a fool to say
The cross-word puzzle will pass away?

Ah, tell me ere you place any bets

What has become of the mah-jongg sets ?
—Gorton Carruth.

A Little Bit of Britain

THINK I'll go a-walking
Along Fifth Avenue ;
Past modish shop where flunkys hop,
By corners where the busses stop
To pick up such as you.
So bring ye forth my topper,
And burnish up my cane,
For truly it is written,
From spatied foot to mitten
I'm just a bit of Britain,
All, all except the rain.

In Leicester Square or Chelsea
Who'd think me infra dig,
Provincial, as I took my way
In morning coat and gloves of gray?
Bah Jove, old thing, I mean to say
I'd doubtless go quite big.
My hat and my Malacca
You'll find ’em side by each.
Although the thought is silly
I’ul wander willy-nilly
Like one from Piccadilly
In all except my speech.

I wonder what would happen
Were I by magic brought
To London town where Thames goes down
In swirls of yellow, gray and brown.
Would it be as I thought?
Of course, I cannot answer,
But this, at least, I'll guess:
I'd feel alone and singlish,
A trifle seared and tinglish,
But look extremely English
In all except my dress.
— Edwin Rutt.

ORAWN BY G. FRANCIS KAUFFMAN

“Houston! Houston, Listen to Mother! Come Right Here Before You Break Something"’

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

Dressed up for Hallowe'en

special holiday wrapper on the favorite

Fussy Chocolates

The Fussy Package is a welcome gift at any
time. Especially good for Hallowe’en because of its
treasures of nuts. Is now furnished in a colorful
pictured wrap, to make it exactly fit the occasion.
Probably the first special assortment of choco-
lates to cater to individual taste of “fastidious
folks,” the Fussy Package is one of the older
members of Whitman’s “Quality Group.”
It was made for those who prefer firm and
“chew-y” chocolates. Nuts, nut caramels and
nut nougat, hidden in a heavy coating of that :
delicious Whitman’s vanilla chocolate. : | ORS at of: (01 & On AT! :
Look for the Fussy Package, with or without : NUT and NUT COMBINATION
the special Hallowe’en wrap, in those selected
stores, in almost every neighborhood in the land,
that are agencies for Whitman’s.

STEPHEN F. WHITMAN & SON, Inc., Philadelphia, U. S. A.

New York Chicago San Francisco

The Fussy Packa - contains chocolate pieces

enclosing Almon Walnuts, Filberts, Peanuts,
Brazil Nuts, Pecans, Double Walnuts, Pecan
Caramels, Triple Almonds, Nougat, Nut Bricklets,
Nut Brittle, Almond Dates, Double Peanuts,
Nougat Caramels, and Almond Caramels.
Packed in boxes from half pound to three pounds.

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

October 17,1925

LIONS WITH THE BOW AND ARROW

(Continued from Page 36)

nuisance once and for all. There was none
of the bouncing farm dog about him now;
he meant business and he intended to
get it over with in the quickest manner
possible. He ran straight and like a streak
of light. We had no time to get out of the
car and deploy; we had to shoot as best
we could and from where we were. My
bullet rolied him end over end, and Art
finished him as he attempted to struggle
to his feet.

Sometimes our photographic adventures
were more peaceful, The next day we
drove through a gap in the hills. There we
found a family group of giraffes and edged
up near enough to get some beautiful ex-
posures. They looked pleasant for half a
dozen sittings, then ambled off with the
peculiar flowing gait so astonishingly
beautiful in so apparently awkward an
animal, These unbelievable creatures are
extraordinarily abundant hereabouts. We
see them sing!y, in threes and fours and in
dozen lotsa, gazing at us chuckleheadedly
over the tops of the low thorn trees. Some-
times when the tree is a little too tall they
stretch their necks out horizontally and
look under them, when they are even more
comical than Nature made them, which is
unnevessary.

Leaving them, we rolled down one side
of a shallow grasay ravine. Near the edge,
and on the opposite side, lay two lionesses,
spread out luxuriously and sleepily, enjoy-
ing the morning. We crossed the ravine
160 yards above them and made the devil
of a noise doing it, with our bumping in and
out of the shallow watercourse, the rattlety-
bang of various loose things and the extra
popping of our exhaust as Leslie turned on
the gas. They paid no attention to us
whatever. Nor did they do more than
glance at us sleepily when we drew up
grandly alongside them, about forty yards
away, and piled out ready for battle.
Battie? They hardly deigned to glance at
us! Leslie made a half dozen exposures,
Finally one yawned, stretched, got up and
walked over to where the other was still
lying down, and stood broadside over her.
Leslie used his last plate on this beautiful
pose. Then, having looked as pretty as
possible, they paced slowly away at a walk,
never once even looking back at us. The
illustration, Taking It Easy, is one of these
pictures.

Before we came Leslie got his pictures
alone, except for his native gun bearer;
and he had some exciting times exchanging
camera for rifle when his sitters got too
uneasy. Once he had not time even to do
this; but with great presence of mind hurled
his sun helmet at the charging lioness,
She stopped to demolish that, which gave
Leslie his chance.

Unsophisticated Game

I suppose our archers are the only people
who have ever killed lions with the English
long bow and the broad arrow. Of course
I cannot be certain of that; but of one
thing I am sure—only in the peculiar con-
ditions here obtaining and in the precise
circumstances in which we find ourselves
would that feat be possible. As lions are
ordinarily found, and with the education
they have elsewhere acquired, it would be
entirely out of the question.

There are a great many lions near
Nyumbo. We have, within ten miles and
in two months’ time, seen 234 different
individuals. Then we have, of course,
encountered the same ones over and over
again, so that the times we have been in
contact with these great animals are almost
innumerable. It is even probable that
some of these supposed repetitions were in
reality fresh lions that we had not seen
before; but unless we could identify them
positively as strangers, we did not count
them. Some—like the ten foolish virgins
mentioned in the last article—got to be
old friends,

These lions are unsophisticated. They
know nothing of rifles. Heretofore there
has been no living thing they have had
cause to fear. As a consequence, they do
not always take cover early in the morning,
as is the habit of lions everywhere else, but
are to be seen roaming the plains until
the day gets hot, and then lying down
under the nearest lone shady tree. There
they can be approached in the flivver to
just as close as we—or they—think desir-
able. Thus is afforded an opportunity to
loose a shaft at selected range and in such
surroundings that if wounded the beast
does not instantly plunge into dangerous
cover. A wounded lion in cover is the one
complication every hunter, rifle or other-
wise, prays devoutly to avoid.

Nowhere else, in known hunting terri-
tory at least, does this combination exist.
It is a peculiar one—many lions; out in
the open in daylight; the possibility of a
short range; and country over which a car
ean »e driven. This lion killing with the
broad arrow, I must repeat, is a stunt due
to the especial conditions. Barring them,
lions cannot, be so killed except by lucky
accident. And even in these especial con-
ditions, the game is a chancy one.

Treeing a Lioness

By actual statistics, 60 per cent of lions
hit by arrows charge home and must be
stopped by the backing rifles without which
your archers would soon be mincemeat.
The other 40 per cent do not run away;
they are merely so busy pouncing upon
and chewing up the arrows that fall near
them that a charge does not occur to them.
If the archer can, while the beast is so
occupied, get a shaft into the chest cavity,
he kills the lion without the help of the
rifle. The broad-head is fatal when so
placed; but not instantly. There are also
a large number sure to charge, and hence
to be stopped by the rifle, before they are
touched by arrows at all—merely because
they are angered at being disturbed.

So I want to make it clear that although
to date the archers have slain five lions
with the long bow, that weapon can hardly
be considered a legitimate lion killer. It is
feasible only as a sport when heavily
backed, and can in no sense stand on its
own feet as it does with American heavy
game.

That being understood, I can state that
as a sport, in these conditions, lion shooting
with the long bow is packed about as full
of thrills as it will stick.

Our first effective day is a fair sample.
We started out across the plains before
sunup; and for several miles had nothing
to do but admire the dawn and marvel at
the hordes of game which grazed everywhere
or raced alongside of us or across our front.
Then in the distance we caught sight of the
unmistakable leisurely free movement of
lions. We made out three of them. Leslie
speeded up and we rapidly drew near.
Then they turned out, not three, but six.

This was a lot of lions—about five too
many—to face, so we trailed along at a
slow gait, hoping one would separate him-
self from his friends. They were moving
at a dignified walk and had not seen us.
Suddenly two lionesses looked back, stared
a moment, then turned and began deliber-
ately to stalk the car. They came sneaking
along, belly to earth, cat fashion, taking
advantage of concealment just as though
we were some sort of new game they wanted
to catch and take home to the children—
as, indeed, we were.

While we waited, ready to go into action
if need be, we had a chance in imagination
to appreciate the state of mind of the se-
lected zebra, only the zebra is defenseless
and we were not.

When they had approached to within
about sixty yards they stopped to take an-
other look, then decided they did not want
that thing after all, and turned slowly

away to follow the others. By good for-
tune they separated. Leslie took instant
advantage to push the car between them
and to edge off after the outside one. A
lion does not like to be followed about and
will stand just about so much of it. He is
willing, nine times in ten, to go away
peaceably; but he will not go far if you
tag after him. He will squat, facing you,
warn you off by voice and switching his
tail. If you disregard this hint long enough
he will come on over to see about it. Some-
times he will do this two or three times
before bringing matters to an issue, and
sometimes he will argue quite a while be-
fore getting action. It was by taking ad-
vantage of this trait that we hoped to get
the archer’s thin chance.

So we followed off her flank, keeping
about her speed. She led us out onto the
open plains, at first at a walk, then at a
long, easy lope. We, coursing alongside and
about sixty yards away, had every op-
portunity of admiring her; and she was
certainly a beautiful sight. Finally she ap-
proached a good-sized tree and checked.
We supposed, of course, she would lie down
under it; but as she neared it she made a
mighty spring for the lowermost crotch,
about ten feet up. She landed clumsily
and fell back. Thereupon she went
around to the other side of the tree, got a
better start and landed.

This was a unique sight—an African lion
in a tree. I never heard of a case before.
They are not by habit or instinct a tree
animal. As far as I know, no other such
instance has ever been recorded. Yet there
she was, ten feet up, and offering a beautiful
mark.

We pulled up at thirty-three paces and
the archers began to shoot. Now their
mark at thirty yards is a nine-inch bull’s-
eye, and they can hit it practically every
time. Nevertheless, at this—and subse-
quent lions—their shooting was very bad.
There was no theoretical reason, so far as
their skill was concerned, why they should
not have hit any of those lions practically
every time. But it proved far otherwise.
As high as ninety shafts sped made from
three to seven hits. Nor was this the effect
of buck fever, or nervousness in the pres-
ence of dangerous game, or anything like
that. They shot deliberately enough. It
was due solely and simply to the delicate
coérdination required by archery technic.

Score One for the Archers

There are, you will remember, some
seventeen things that must work together
for accuracy. In order to get them to work
together the archer must center his atten-
tion on them. The major portion of his
consciousness must be with his bow and
not with his mark, whatever it may be.
Until he can think of his game as imper-
sonally as he thinks of a straw target, he
will miss. With ordinary game he can do
this; but it is beyond human nature for a
man, unless he has had long experience with
them, to think of an angry and restless
beast as a straw lion. His attention and
consciousness are at the wrong end. He is
thinking of the lion and letting his technic
take care of itself. It does not do so.
Therefore his release is creeping, or his
bow arm jerks, or his back muscles spring,
or something else; and his shaft flies just
wide enough to miss.

The flights of arrows went thick and fast.
The tree around that lioness began to look
like an erection of porcupine quills. A few
shafts struck her in out-of-the-way places,
but inflicted 6nly slight flesh wounds. She
was very angry about it. Gladly would she
have charged to'put an end to this nuisance,
but she was ten feet up in the air, and she
was not accustomed to being up in the air,
and she did not quite know how to jump
down. Time and again she gathered her-
self together te spring, but could not figure
it out. She reminded me of a boy afraid

to dive. Then the arrows almost simul-
taneously pierced her ribs. She sank slowly
into the crotch and died.

We approached the tree and took pic-
tures. At the same time we became aware of
the fact that this was a bee tree, and that
the bees were home, but perfectly willing
to emerge if urged. This looked like a prob-
lem. We were considering it when Leslie
happened to glance up and on the sky line
about a mile away caught sight of a very
fine maned lion. Hastily piling into the
motor car, we turned on the juice and
rattlety-banged off over the rolling plains in
his pursuit. He was large and lordly and
indolent, and disinclined to exertion. Nine-
teen hyenas attended him—at a safe dis-
tance. He did us the honor of joy-trotting
for about half a mile, glancing at us in an
annoyed fashion from time to time. We
had a wonderful chance to look him over,
to admire the lithe grace of his movements,
the rippling of his heavy mane in the breeze.
Then suddenly he stopped and faced us,
sumewhat out of breath. We drew up
exactly forty-seven paces distant, as it
afterward proved. The archers hopped out;
we went into action.

But he was a dignified person, and his
dignity was badly ruffled. He paid no at-
tention to the arrows, which whizzed near
but did not touch him. Suddenly he was
on his feet and at us.

Killed in Mid:Air

His first few leaps, before he settled into
his stride, were comparatively slow. I said
““comparatively.”” By that I mean slow for
a lion. At forty yards I fired a bullet from
the .405 straight into the point of his shoul-
der. This should have put him down, but
it never even checked him. Leslie’s big
double .577 roared immediately after, the
bullet hitting him in the face and ranging
back into his body. This should have blown
him sky-high, as the .577 is no child’s toy.
It, too, failed even to shorten his stride.

He was now coming great guns. I had
just time to yank down and back the lever
before he was right on us. My bullet, de-
livered at about ten feet, hit him in the air
in mid-spring, in the chest just forward of
the diaphragm, ranging slightly back and
out the other side. Leslie fired his second
barrel at the same instant straight through
the beast’s forehead. The lion was killed
stone dead in mid-air.

Standing just to one side of his direct
charge—he had elected Leslie—I saw his
great head drop straight down between his
outstretched forepaws. Nevertheless, his
spring, being started, carried through true
to the end; and if Leslie, after firing, had
not side-stepped hastily, the dead mass
would have bowled him over. The body hit
the ground ten feet the other side of him
and rolled over and over. If Leslie had not
shot very coolly and accurately he would
certainly have been killed. The three other
hits were all or any of them fatal enough,
but they did not suffice to stop that tre-
mendous vitality soon enough to prevent
his getting through.

We agreed that this was a close one, and
proceeded to skin that lion. Then we re-
turned leisurely toward the tree to get the
arrow lioness. Over the crest of the gentle
slope ve ran smack into six more lions
traveling in the opposite direction. We
continued toward them to within about
eighty yards, when two became so bellig-
erent that we decided ourselves outnuin-
bered.

“One lion, all right; two lions—well,
maybe; six lions—no, that is to say not!”
we remarked.

But there seemed to be as yet no law
against tagging along after; the hyenas
seemed to be doing it. So we fell in dis-
creetly in the rear and joined the proces-
sion. They moved at a walk, not only
unafraid of us but completely ignoring our

(Continued on Page 87)

THE

“ ’~ 4
g ‘sp f

and the Film of Prot

EFORE you fry an egg, you first
grease the pan. That forms a thin
film of oil which shields the egg from
too direct contact with the heat. If
the oil film breaks, then the egg burns
and is ruined.

But the heat of a frying-pan is cool
compared to the heat inside your
motor. And it is a lubricating oil’s job
to protect your motor from that ter-
rific heat. Over all the vital parts of
the motor, the oil forms a thin film
like the film that protects the egg in
the frying-pan. As long as that film
remains unbroken your motor is pro-
tected. But the instant the film breaks,
scorching heat beats upon unprotected
surfaces. And tearing, grinding friction
attacks raw unguarded metal.

The result, sooner or later,
is a burned-out bearing, a
scored cylinder or a seized
piston, a dismal trip to a shop
and big repair bills.

SATURDAY EVENING POST

» LADIES!
Your motor ~ a frie

NOTE TO READERS:

We believe there is only one reason why
careless husbands still buy “any old motor
oil” —no one has taken the trouble to
tell wives why motor oil is so important.

Women who read this page will never
again trust an unknown oil to safeguard the
family motor. Unknown motor oils belong
in the age when crackers were sold from

barrels and milk was delivered in tin pails.

The best way to purchase oil is the way you now
buy crackers or cereals—in a clean, full-weight,
sealed package. You can buy the correct Veedol
oil for your car in a sealed one or five gallon can.
That is the best way to make sure that your
motor will have the genuine “film of protection.

”
.

The failure of a film of cooking oil
only ruins a five-cent egg. The failure
of a film of motor oil damages, per-
haps ruins, a $500 motor.

That is why the responsibility ot a
motor oil is so great. That is why it
pays to choose your
motor oil with the
same care that you

choose your car.

For years Tide
Water Oil technol-
ogists studied and
tested not only oils
but oil films. Finally,
in Veedol, they per-
fected an oil which
gives the “film of
protection,” thin as

™
.

cf

e | / 7
f

e

d egg ~

ection

tissue, smooth as

silk, tough as steel.

A film that resists
deadly heat and friction.
never fails.

Use the motor oil that gives the
“film of protection”

Thousands of car owners have found
that the “film of protection” means a
smoother running car, more power,
more mileage and greater freedom
from repairs.

It is easy to put the “film of protec-
tion” on the job in your car safeguard-
ing the life of your motor and increas-
ing the resale value of your car.

Wherever you see the orange and
black Veedol sign you will find a cour-
teous, efficient dealer who believes in
and recommends the “film of protec-
tion.” Tell the dealer that you want
your crankcase drained and refilled
with the correct Veedol oil for your
car. He will be glad to render this
service for you.

Tide Water Oil Sales Corporation,
Eleven Broadway, New York. Branches
or warehouses in all principal cities.

October 17,1925

&
®
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86

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

October 17,1925

Here Comes This Letter
After 31 Years

Written With a Parker “Pen In Use All That Time

—and used by hundreds of hands

Aya > ¥ at He ts ry
f Gs 7A "a tT

a

HIS LETTER “Pr e ss Ahr

Written With a Parker Pen hee a tics

After 31 Tears’ Use
Mays Lick, Ky., July 25, 1925
Parker Pen Co.,

ier Sion

Janesville, Wis. aw Cone We

Dear Sirs:

I thought it might be of interest to you
to know that the pen with which I am
now writing is one of your fountain pens : Fi. Z
nich I Tet dusins win ot 1 t t Se eee ae 3 08 1 Lane,

rom Jas. H. Grigeby of Sardis, Ky., a iw *
has been in continuous service since that Ss ’ heo ee: ore gisced,
date with the exception of a few days { 2088 sede

that I had to send it to you for repairs,
having broken the threaded end that
screws into the fountain by leaning
across a fence,

The pen still has the original point and
is giving good service notwithstandi:
the fact that there has been hundreds o

Riwals the op

of she Scortes

ue % dg “a 4

Lae Geers ara

4 wr undh,

EF wet
t+-2-4, a &

E

ad KK Rad ruat
ui eae

ns a 3 I heartily and conscientiously recom-
ca Parker to all who need a pen

eal ro ay cer ge

EY SD 7

Mer of FL epee, Lo RF:

dhs A* Za Ha
ghetis of et naor
tL. nike 3 / yas a
ake > ate 3x meacko
ff eal P sacs Lit
1 Racy he at cory ie e

Zn OG aiirn
Sah én. 2a fK,

its 31 years of service.

mend the
of the highest quality.

Very truly yours,

ome ine ah anal
baa

At} +e

TULA Fearne,

towne Grcsatiown® Aare,

You Can’t Put a Price on Pens That Give Such Value

UTOMOBILES and Parker Duofold Pens

had not yet been given to the world when

one July day in 1894, H. M. Cracroft passed four

dollars over the counter for a Parker “Lucky
Curve” Pen.

“Hard Times” had a strangle-hold on the na-
tion, corn was selling in the vicinity of thirty cents
a bushel,and four dollars was aboutas flossy a price
as a man paid for a week's board at the old Com-
mercial House.

Yet that same Parker Pen, which Mr. Cracroft
bought in those old days, still writes his letters;
and, he says, “still has its original point and is
giving good service.”

There are a host of these Parker patriarchs still
on the job after 20 and 30 years, poh longer.

They are the staunch forefathers of a hardy race
of pens—-they speak with quiet eloquence of Geo.
S. Parker's skill and sincerity and success in mak-
ing his products the worthy Custodians of his

THE PARKER PEN COMPANY

business honor. And isn’t it reasonable to sup-
pose that if Geo. S. Parker's pens of the 80's and
90's are still “giving good service,” that his super-
pen, the Parker Duofold, will outlast whoever
buys it?

Parker Duofold, you see, embodies skill and
improvements unknown when we made Mr
Cracroft's pen. The 25-year point—the Hand-size
Grip—the Over-size Ink-capacity—the Press-But-
ton Filler—the free-swinging Balance—and the
black-tipped lacquer-red barrel, so handsome to
own and hard to mislay.

And isn’t the Parker Duofold at $7 more eco-
nomical than paying less for one fountain pen
after another but paying more in a year or two?

Good pen counters wouldn't be without it. Get
Parker Duofold today—for you gain nothing by
waiting, but you lose the use of the pen that gives
one’s hand the speed and the character that win
with the world.

- JANESVILLE, WISCONSIN

Pencils to match the Pens: Lady Duofold, $3; Over-size Jr., $3.50; “Big Brother” Over-size, $4

NEW YORK + CHICAGO

* ‘THE PARKER FOUNTAIN PEN COMPANY, LIMITED, TORONTO, CANADA *

SAN FRANCISCO

‘THE PARKER PEN COMPANY, LTD., BUSH HOUSE, STRAND, LONDON, W. C.

- Park

15 Year Point

Lady Duofoid
With ring a

different persons written with it during

Wishing you continued success, | am

(Signad) H. M, CRAcRorr.

> yy

(Continued from Page 82)
existence. Heaven knows, I would never
ignore a flivver behind me!

Finally one dropped a little behind. We
spurted and by a masterly maneuver in-
sinuated ourselves between him and his
friends, who paced solemnly away, bless
them! Art hopped out and at fifty yards
placed a broad-head through his hind foot.
The shaft stayed there, and this engrossed
his attention for a moment or so until he
had broken it off and chewed it angrily to
bits. Then, just as he faced us again, an-
other from the volleys of arrows launched
at him flicked his haunch. He seized upon
this, too, and chewed it. Thus the merry
game went on.

Then several times he prepared to
charge, and once came part way; but on
each occasion an arrow falling close to him
attracted his attention. He would rise up
and pounce upon it as a cat pounces on a
ball it is playing with. Evidently he was
beginning to ascribe most of his troubles to
arrows rather than to flivvers, as he had
been inclined to believe at first. This was a
very good example of that 40 per cent, I
mentioned, of lions that will stop to fight
the arrows rather than charge. As long as
we had arrows to feed him he stayed right
on that job. Nor was he getting off scot-
free. He was hit in all seven times, mostly
flesh wounds. One arrow pierced his body
back of the diaphragm. It would have
killed him in time, probably of peritonitis.
If it had been six or eight inches farther
forward it would have killed him almost at
once. But it wasn’t.

Then suddenly Art—or Doc—remarked,
“Gosh!”

“What is it?’”’ we muttered from within
our close attention to that lion.

“‘Quiver’s empty.”

We had no more arrows to supply that
arrow-fed lion. And he had eaten all within
reach and he was beginning to focus his
mind on us again. A hasty exchange of
words found us in agreement that only one
thing could be done. The .405 settled him
before he could start our way.

Leslie then saw four more licns in an-
other direction, but we passed them up.
We had to go get that lioness out of the bee
tree. But that made seventeen in the open
in a space about a mile square.

Life Savers in the Jungle

That is a not untypical day after lions
with the bow and arrow. And right here,
mainly because nobody else is likely to do
it, I want to say just a few sad words on be-
half of the lowly supers in this drama. I
refer to the life-insurance fellows—Leslie
Simson and myself. Our job is a humble
but very necessary one. Between us, we
are supposed to get the car up very close to
the lions and then to see to it that the said
lions do not puncture a tire or something.
Furthermore, we are supposed to do noth-
ing about it until the last possible moment.
Otherwise we earn silent but heavy dis-
approbation; or else we are quite likely to
be told that the beast was not really coming
in that time, but only started toward us as
a bluff and would have stopped of his own
accord if we had let him alone.

Ours is a waiting game, in cold blood. It
is one thing to corner a lion and then shoot
him at your own moment, charge or not.
It is quite another to stand waiting within
fifty yards of a beast angered by being
chased, and wounded by arrows, sometimes
for five or ten or fifteen minutes on end,
without being able to relax the tension for
a fraction of a second. The ar.hers are at
least busy, doing something. And when the
thing breaks, our responsibility is absolute.
If the beast gets through, someone is going
to be killed. The archers are privileged to
miss; we are not.

It is for this reason alone a highly dan-
gerous game to play. Standing at acute
tension over a period of time is not con-
ducive to the necessary accurate shooting
except by a distinct effort of the will. Two
experienced backing guns is the minimum
with which it should be attempted. One

THE SATURDAY

gun, no matter how many lions he has
killed afoot and by himself, is not enough.
This is for the above-mentioned reason
solely.

But there are other elements of danger
not comprehended in the usual lion shoot-
ing. It is necessary to bring the car to a
stand and to disembark at a very short dis-
tance from the beast, which is already angry
at being followed. Now, unless you have
tried it, you will never be able to realize
how much sway and oscillation the springs
impart to a motor car for some few seconds
after it has been brought to a standstill.
So great is this, especially when people are
hastily getting out, that it is extremely
difficult to shoot from the car. It is wise
for everybody to get out at once. That
necessarily leaves several seconds unpro-
tected, no matter how expeditiously the
maneuver is carried out.

If the lion seiects that precise time to
come in, it is bad. And there is no way of
telling when he will do so. On several occa-
sions the riflemen have been forced to get
busy fairly before the car has stopped. In
one instance the lion was stopped three
paces from the radiator. Onto the dead
body of another we could have stepped
from the running board.

With Bow and Gun

In the first five days of actual arrow
hunting we were charged eight times. Two
lions fell to arrows alone; nine were killed
with the rifles. Of these latter, five had
been hit by arrows. I instance these statis-
tics as fairly typical. One of the arrow-
killed lions started toward us, but was
diverted by a rifle shot that just singed his
skin. It did him no damage, but did return
his attention to chewing arrows. He had
been doing this, and evidently ascribed his
annoyances to them. Whether without the
rifle shot he would have come through or
not is a moot point. On the other hand,
one of those killed by the rifle might have
died of his arrow wounds. We killed him
because the supply of arrows was ex-
hausted. Whether he would have charged
or lain there and died—and how soon he
would have died—is also a moot question.
It is my opinion that moot questions have
small place within fifty yards of a wounded
lion. It is only my opinion.

Later in the game we modified condi-
tions somewhat. No longer did we get
quite so close. We let the archers open
hostilities at sixty yards. That gave us a
little more room for action. We also cut out
lionesses and confined our efforts to males.
The females are much quicker to make up
their minds to charge, they start faster and
are harder to hit. That helped some, but
not too much. When Leslie departed at
the end of a few weeks, we called the arrow
stunt on lions finished. One backing gun is
not enough.

Although I am not an archer, but only
shoot a little with the bow and arrow, I
tried it twice to see how it seemed. Art is an
excellent rifle shot, and after he had seen a
lot of charges and knew what to expect, he
and Leslie did the backing to give me a
chance. We bayed one up at just sixty
paces. I managed to get my first arrow in
the top of his head. An arrow there does no
damage, but does stick deep in the large
muscle. He reared mightily, trying to get
at the arrow with his forefeet, then dropped
to face us. I shot twice more, one arrow
grazing his shoulder to the left, the other
falling in front of him. He pounced upon
the latter, tore it to flinders and promptly
charged. Art’s bullet merely cut the skin of
his ear. Leslie’s .577 was also a trifle high,
grooving the muscle on the top of his head
so deeply as to daze him so he stopped

EVENING POST

twenty-five yards away. At this short
range I put an arrow through his heart;
that killed him. Now this lion was un-
doubtedly killed by an arrow—Leslie’s
bullet inflicted no real damage, and would
have had but a temporary stunning effect —
and yet it was the rifle that made his killing
possible.

This satisfied me for a while. I went
back to the life-insurance business. Then
just before Leslie went, and as my left
wrist had partially recovered from a slight
sprain, I tried it again. This time we cut
out a young lion from a bunch of five and
bayed him up at about ninety yards. It
was pretty long range, but from the way he
acted we did not think we could get nearer
without provoking a charge and so being
forced to shoot him with rifles. However,
he acted like a gentleman, got interested in
chewing arrows to slivers, and so gave us a
chance. Once he did start to come toward
us, but saw one of Doc’s nice white-
feathered shafts and stopped to eat it. We
made plenty of hits. At one time he looked
like an animated pincushion.

Finally he lay down to face us, and as we
were out of arrows, it looked like a stale-
mate, with final recourse to the gun. Leslie
wanted to try something, so he sat down
where he could get a good sight and put
three .22 bullets accurately into the sticking
place. They killed that lion! We found one
of my arrows through his shoulder and into
his chest cavity. That would have killed
him inside a minute. If we had known we
would have let him alone.

But this brings me to a few words of wis-
dom I should like to address to the fathers
and mothers of juvenile America. They
concern the .22 caliber rifle. I mean the
sort they fondly give little Willie at Christ-
mas and turn him loose with all his ten-
year-old judgment. They think they have
done something harmless because it is a
little gun. Let me tell you something of that
little gun.

We have one in camp. Its original pur-
pose was guinea fowl, marmots and such
small game. Now we use it exclusively for
supplying our own table. With it we kill
the gazelles, including the big Robert's
gazelle, which is about the same size as our
deer. Furthermore, it is sure death to
hyenas, a big strong beast. To accompiish
this result the tiny bullet must be accu-
rately placed, either sidewise in the neck or
through the heart. Unless it can be so
placed every time, it is unjustified. No man
who is not thoroughly in command of his
weapon every time should ever pop the
thing at anything bigger than a rabbit.
Cripples are inexcusable. Nor should even
a crack shot ever be tempted beyond the
range at which he is sure. Art and I find
this limit 100 yards. We never shoot far-
ther than that with the .22, and so far we
have had no cripples. I am thus emphatic
because I do not want anyone to think I
consider the .22 a proper rifle for big game.
It is not. We use it carefully, as a meat
gun, to save big cartridges.

Not Field Archery

But the point I am trying to prove is that
the thing is a deadly weapon, capable of
killing instantly in their tracks—and not
by accident, but repeatedly—-beasts much
more tenacious of life than is man. Yet you
will see small boys by dozens roaming thé
fields, armed with the “little” .22, without
the slightest bit of supervision or instruc-
tion, popping away here, there and every-
where. And at home sits mamma, fatly
and fatuously thinking what a good, careful
parent she is.

All of which is not what I started to say
at all. What I started to say is that this

87

bow-and-arrow game with lions is one of the
liveliest and most exciting I’ve tackled yet.
It is grand sport. But it is not, like all other
sporting-field archery, a gunless game. Just
as to play tennis you need certain imple-
ments—a net, a court, a racket, some
balls—so in this game certain implements
are necessary.

Some ef these implements are not in-
cluded in field archery. Perhaps this is not
field archery, but a new game entirely, re-
quiring a new name, What you need for
it are one motor car, bows and arrows--
and two proper rifles with cool and experi-
enced men behind them.

With the last lines of the preceding para-
graph I intended yesterday to end this ar-
ticle. This morning, however, we took a
forty-mile drive in the car, and the results
thereof are so important to the vital statis-
tics of our province of Nyumbo that I am
moved to add a paragraph or two. We are
no flamboyant boosters, but we want to do
ourselves full justice.

Our population, in short, is much larger
than we had thought. This morning we
drove through a low pass in our westward
mountains, to find ourselves in a new coun-
try. It might be described as a diversified
circular area surrounded by mountains.
The diameter of the circle might be fifteen
or twenty miles. The diversification con-~
sisted of a complicated series of low, gently
sloping hills that crossed one another to
form a great number of miniature shallow
cups or valleys. These varied in diameter
from one to two and a half or three miles.
They were open and green, and were sep-
arated from one another not only by the
low ridges but by the fact that the upper
slopes of these ridges were grown with thin
mimosa forests. We drove along the slopes
and looked down upon the wide, shallow
saucers.

Game Like the Blades of Grass

In each of these saucers were game ani-
mals in what I fear will be to you incredible
numbers. We had from our unseen eleva-
tions every opportunity of examining and
counting and estimating them as they stood
motionless or grazed slowly. Beginning at
one end, we counted one by one the beasts
in certain typical flocks. Then we measured
how many such flocks the valley contained.
We did this fairly. That is to say, we did
not count where they stood thickest and
do our estimating where they stood
thinner. We are boosters, but we do not
do our claiming on the basis of the tele-
phone book or the school directory or some
such thing. Furthermore, we confined our-
selves to wildebeest, because wildebeest are
black and show up well. We ignored the
swarms of gazelles, semivisible at a dis-
tance. We overlooked the fact that there
were at all times in view—and in large
numbers— hartebeest, topi, giraffes, and the
like. Our results we could not believe our-
selves until we had checked and re-
checked them and thought them over.

In one cup alone were 10,006. When we
moved the car it seemed that fully as many
more poured out from the mimosas to the
safety of the open. There were many such
cups, and each and every one was for its
size fully as thickly populated. In that one
district there were certainly not less than
300,000 wildebeest alone. Doc claims a full
500,000. Those are large figures, but they
will hold, I have seen things in aggregate;
cattle by thousands in the big round-ups of
old days, men by tens of thousands in the
army and in crowds.

Furthermore, three men we sent out
yesterday to scout in another but equally
distant direction this noon returned. They
report, ‘‘Grass and water, and game like
the blades of grass.”

If ever before mortal eyes have beheld
greater multitudes of wild animals in a like
space, it must have been here. The classic
descriptions of the game fields of old South
Africa make mention of no such hordes.

_

Editor's Note—This is the fourth of a series of
articles by Mr. White. The next will appear in an
carly issue.

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST October 17,1925

Food for Thought

A tood tor protein;afood for mineral

salt, for calcium and phosphorous;
all the essential tood elements for
atigeh ure alite mtscehs aes Wil acm com arom celtrare
in good cheese. And every essential
element of good cheese is always

tound in Kraft Cheese.

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a

Aunt Alexandra giggled. Richard laughed
and kissed her, and went into his room feel-
ing much more cheerful. Aunt Alex, at
least, was human. Nice of her to be so
enthusiastic about Regina’s legs.

That. night the family dined without
Charles; but dined, nevertheless, in state.
Regina looked like a schoolgirl on her best
behavior. She wore a simple white evening
dress without ornament of any kind. Her
black hair was brushed smoothly off her
forehead and gathered into a thick coil at
the nape of her neck. The effect was in-
credibly youthful. Only her great dark
eyes and her lovely red mouth gave away
the secret of her maturity. Otherwise she
was a child in strange company.

Her manners, Richard noticed, were
flawless. She was, of course, too clever to
make any mistakes in that respect. And
her bearing toward his mother was pre-
cisely what it should have been. But,
watching her, he was conscious of a certain
restraint underlying the girl’s whole atti-
tude. He had a feeling that at any moment
she might spring up, like a surprised deer,
and dash off into some free world of her
own.

After dinner Mrs. Ballantine and Aunt
Alexandra settled down in the living room
for their usual game of double Canfield.
Richard and Regina, apparently moved by
the same impulse, wandered away, and
found themselves presently in the ball-
room, or formal drawing-room, at one end
of which rose the gilded pipes of the Ballan-
tine organ.

“T used to play,” said Richard. ‘My
father enjoyed it. He’d come in after din-
ner and sit there—by the window. He was
fond of Chopin ——”

“Play,” said Regina.

So he climbed up to the organ loft and
after some preliminary fumbling with the
stops began to play the familiar Nocturne
in A Flat Minor. Regina sat on the steps,

listening.
When he had finished she said without
moving, “I don’t like it.”

Richard told her, casually, that it was
his father’s favorite, and the motif of the
house.

She lifted her chin from her hands and
looked at him. “I’m sorry. I don’t
like it.”

“You'll like this,”” he said, and launched
at once into a waltz that was both reminis-
cent and strange.

It was in fact many waltzes caught up
and tossed about by a major force, as dead
leaves are tossed by a whirlwind. Old
music stirred and bedeviled into a new pat-
tern, a new importance.

Regina was delighted. She ran down the
steps and moved about the room excitedly.
Richard, turning his head, saw her almost
dancing. But she stopped when she caught
his eye; he, at the same moment, stopped
playing, and they remained looking at each
other.

“‘What was it?” she asked, and he an-
swered, “‘Sacrilege.”’

“Sacrilege?”’

“A waltz of Ravel’s that I heard in Paris
and only half memorized. I’d no business
to attempt it.”

“T wanted to dance. But I—didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because that would have been sacri-
lege too.”

“Look here ——” began Richard, then

stopped and came down from the organ
loft, fumbling with his cigarette case.
“Smoke?” he said, offering her a cigarette.

“T’d love to. Do you think I dare?”

“Dare?”

“Your mother told me she objected to
women smoking. I don’t want to offend
her.”

“Outside,” suggested Richard, “on the
porch.”

“Oh—yes. Let’s!”

“We can go this way, through the li-
brary.”

WIND-BLOWN

(Continued from Page 23)

At the door of the library, which ad-
joined the drawing-room, Richard paused.

“Once I hid behind these portiéres,” he.

said, “‘and heard my father laying down the
law to some men representing, I believe,
about one-third of the cash assets of the
country. I was too young to appreciate the
solemnity of the occasion—it was during
the panic of 1907—but I was impressed, all
the same. It was like eavesdropping at a
conference of the archangels.”

“Charles has shown me the library,” re-
marked Regina as they went through the

room. “He spoke quite beautifully about
it—about your father. Do you know how
I felt?”

“T can guess.”

“Tell me!”

“You felt like a young princess being
ushered into the throne room for the first
time.”

She looked at him, startled. Her voice
was a trifle breathless as she said, “ Let’s go
out and smoke.”

There was a screened porch filled with
flowers, off the library. Sitting there they
could see on one side the pale curve of the
driveway splashed with light from the
house; on the other the smcoth lawn melt-
ing into the level shadow of the Sound. A
faint breeze shook the raindrops from the
trees; a new moon struggled out of a mesh
of drifting cloud.

“Tf it’s not too soon,” said Richard, “I'd
like to ask you a question.”

“Well?”

“Are you marrying Charles because you
love him, or because it would be absurd not
to marry him?”

She was silent so long that he added,
finally, ‘There’s absolutely no reason why
you should answer me, you know.”

“Oh, but I want to! But—I want to get
it straight. Quite clear. In my own mind,”
she said, and was silent again. Finally she
leaned forward, her face showing suddenly
pale in this light.

“I’m going to marry Charles,” she said,
“because it’s such a good dream.”

“A fairy tale,” he commented gravely.

“Exactly! The sort of fairy tale one be-
lieves in at sixteen and doubts at twenty
and goes on believing in just the same.”

“Though one knows, of course, that it
doesn’t exist.”

“But you see it does!” cried Regina with
ashadowy smile, a vague gesture of triumph.

“One chance in a million,”’ said Richard.

“Yes, I know. That’s what makes it so
exciting. Because it has happened—it’s
going to happen—to me!”

“And you feel that life can pay you no
greater compliment?”

She laughed a little at that.

“T’ll admit that I’m tremendously flat-
tered. Imagine! to be—actually to be
what I’ve always dreamed of being.”

“A rich man’s wife?”

“Oh, no, no, no! You're not as stupid as
that. Are you?” she demanded so anx-
iously, thrusting her head once more into the
light, that he hastened to reassure her. “I!
meant,” he apologized, “‘a very rich man’s
wife.”

“Ah!” she said. “‘That’s better.”

He felt all at once a definite interest in
her—in this charming Regina. It was, he
told himself, an interest thoroughly per-
missible, friendly and even scientific. She
had the attraction of elusiveness. His mind
groped for hers as his eyes groped for her
figure now almost lost in the darkness.

“You'll make a good princess,” he said.

“Oh, yes! I'll be good. You'll see.”

“Even your name ——- The Princess
Regina.”

“Yes.

I’ve thought of that. But the

other must die and be buried.”
“What?”

THE SATURDAY

EVENING POST

“The other Regina. She must have a |

little funeral all her own. Perhaps on my
wedding day. Yes, that would be nice. To
bury her under my bridal flowers. How
silly—and sentimental! But I’m really
quite fond of her.”

“I dare say she’s charming,”
Richard. ‘Tell me about her.”

““Well—she began by chasing butterflies
in a meadow. That’s the first thing I re-
member about her. Then she had a notion
that she could fly on her own account. She
made herself a pair of paper wings and
jumped off a high rock. Lucky for her she
landed on soft ground—she was a scrawny
child with thin, thin legs ——

“What then?”

“Then her mother died and was buried
in the family burying ground. The next
thing I remember is this scrawny Regina
sneaking out, at night, to dance at the foot
of her mother’s grave.”

“Dance?”

“She didn’t know what else to do. Her
mother had always laughed when she
danced. There was a wind blowing through
the vine trees. A sort of music. And—oh,
yes! There was a whippoorwill! So she
danced ——

“Of course she did!” said Richard, sit-
ting tense in his chair.

“And after that—well, there were rela-
tives to take care of her. But they thinned
out in time. Till finally there was only one
left —a very old aunt with a mole, who lived
in New York, and was wardrobe mistress in
a theater. The aunt had once married—
years and years ago—a Frenchman by the
name of Duval, so thin-legged Regina took
her name and went hopping about back-
stage till she was sixteen. She always had
wanted to dance, and had studied and prac-
ticed all she could, till finally the director
of the theater gave her a chance, and ———

“‘ And she was an instantaneous success!”

Regina laughed. Her laugh was some-

remarked

how akin to raindrops falling from hidden |

leaves.
“That would be a fairy tale! No, it was

a long time before Thin Legs became any- |

thing of a success. But she worked. Oh,
how she worked! And all the time she had
a feeling—a frightfully secret feeling —that
some day she'd turn into a princess.”
“Was she happy about it?”
“Well—yes, ina way. Because she really
was a sentimental person. And there were
times when she was tired, and frightened,
and—all the rest of it. The aunt with the
mole died, and she was left without a rela-
tive to her name. She had, I must say, offers
of protection. But there was never a king-
dom laid at her feet. Just pocketbooks
with strings to them. For a time she
thought she couldn’t go on. Not a prince
on the horizon ———

Only fat men who |

looked guilty. A solid ring of fat men—I |

give you my word — who were always on the
verge of a wink. She got tired of laughing
at them.”

“Then she met Charles,”

wee iy

“And Charles pulled a kingdom out of
his hat and offered it to her?”

“No. It was better magic than that.”

said Richard.

“Was it?”
“Oh, yes. Much better. Because he
loved her. The kingdom came out-of his |

heart.”

“T see. But in that case, why must the
other Regina die and be buried?”

“‘ Because she’s not to be trusted. I think
she still has a silly notion that she can fly.
Especially when she hears music, or when
things are very bright-—-and nice—or very
funny! No, she’s not to be trusted. She
might spoil the dream.”

|

“Just the same,” observed Richard, ‘I |

like her.”

Regina didn’t answer. The drip of mois-
ture from the leaves was almost as loud as
rain.

Then suddenly she said, “It isn’t easy,
you know. Your mother doesn’t approve

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THE SATURDAY

of me. I know that and understand it. But
I'll make her--——"’ She paused, and aftera
| moment added with a kind of brooding
| solemnity, ‘I'll be very good.”
Then they heard someone in the library,
and looked up and saw Charles Ballantine
| come into the light of the doorway. He
stopped and stood motionless on the raised
threshold, peering into the darkness. His
| short, solid figure seemed curiously statu-
| esque, as though it were fixed on a pedestal.
| “Regina? Are you out there?”
“Yes. With Richard.”
| “Richard!” exclaimed the older brother.
“Hello, old Charles,” said that young
| man, rising and going toward the other.

Regina watched them. How tall Rich-
ard was, and how very blond. His hair was
almost gold in the light. He towered over
Charles. She noticed that and was vaguely
resentful.

The two brothers shook hands and ex-
changed greetings in that cheerful, casual
tone which approximates affection. But
neither was precisely at ease. Regina sensed
| here an ancient difference, a conflict of per-
sonalities inborn.

Then presently Richard was saying good
night. “My boatman will be waiting for
me. I’m sleeping on board the Wanderer.”

“Good night,” she said, and felt sud-
denly tired, heavy, as though all the vital-
ity had gone out of her.

However, when Charles stepped down
| toward her, saying that he wanted to talk to

| her, she became once more alert, alive. Her

| nerves tightened.

She thought,‘‘ Something has happened,”
and waited for him to begin.

But first he leaned down and kissed her.

“I wish there were nothing but this,
Regina.”

“Ah!” shesaid. And to herself, alarmed,
“Careful! Hold fast to the dream.”

But her mind fled strangely from its
task. She thought of the sailor brother go-
ing in a boat toward a white schooner float-
ing on shadowy waters.

u

| HE next morning Richard rose at eight

o'clock, dressed, and went on deck. The
| yacht’s steward met him at the top of the
| companionway.

“Will you have breakfast on board, sir?”’
“No,” said Richard, deciding on the in-
| stant. He would go ashore, he told the

steward, and have breakfast at the house.
| “It's early, sir.” Well, so it was, but he'd
| go ashore all the same.

He got away in the motor launch without
more than a steady look and a blunt ‘‘ Good
morning, sir’’ from Captain Mosby. But

| he was conscious of a subtle disapproval in

| thesailor’s manner, Itirritated him. Hang

| it all, did the man think he was going to
make some sort of fool of himseif?

He had, under his arm, a package—the
| present he had bought in San Sebastian for
| Regina. But that was all right. Quite

regular, in fact —still, he might have sent it
to the house by one of the men.

“Oh, don’t be an ass,”” he muttered half
| aloud, and landed at the Ballantine pier
| feeling at odds with himself. It was a hard,
| bright day, going to be hot. He disliked
these cloudless, brilliant days.

When he reached the house no one was
about but the manservant, who noiselessly
brought him the morning papers. With a
sense of inexplicable absurdity he sat down
in the living room and began to read.

He read for an hour. Then someone
came down the stairs and was stirring in the
hall. He was conscious of an excitement
which was altogether too absurd. So he
got up, stumbled over the papers at his
feet, and stood looking at Regina suddenly
| framed in the doorway.
| So very lovely! Like a statue—quite per-

fect! Such a sweet young body.

“Good morning!”

“Good morning.”

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

“Beautiful,” he agreed, with enthusiasm.

“The sun woke me up early.”” She came
toward him, smiling. There was a daze in
| her eyes, a virgin mistiness, blurring her

EVENING POST

reality. He felt this dream sense over-
whelming him, distorting the facts of their
acquaintance. She was marvelously famil-
iar, coming toward him at that moment.
Had he not, indeed, known her when she
was a child playing in some unidentified
meadow?

“What's that?” she asked, nodding to-
ward the package on the table beside him.
** My present?”

“Yes,” he said, staring at her.

“Please! May I see it?”’

“Yes, of course.”

She flew eagerly at the knot in the cord.

“Oh, I can’t untie it. Have you got a
knife?”” So he cut the string; the paper
was torn off, the box was opened and Re-
gina lifted out, slowly and reverently, a
Spanish shawl of rare beauty.

It was old and mellow, a pale shade of
golden brown. There was a design of
leaves, henna colored, exquisitely faded—
like autumn leaves steeped in sunlight, and
a deep fringe that edged it with a drip of
gold.

“How heavy it is,” she said, and threw
it over her shoulders, and held it around her
with a little shudder of joy. “How beau-
tiful!”’

“T was told it belonged to a great lady,”
said Richard, “‘who unfortunately married
for love ——”

She glanced at him; he saw the startled
look come into her eyes. Then, with a
quick gesture, she took off the shawl and
stood, curiously mournful, holding it in her
hands.

“It belongs to the other Regina,”’ she
murmured, crumpling the heavy folds.

Richard understood.

But he said perversely, ‘‘Then you don't
like it?” and immediately was ashamed of
himself.

She thought that she had hurt him; that
she had been ungrateful.

“Oh!” she exclaimed then. “I only
meant ——-” Then she stepped toward
him, impulsively pulled down his head and
kissed him. “I love it! I’ve never had
anything in my life so beautiful.”

He made some inadequate and blun-
dering reply. Her kiss had taken {him
completely by surprise. It had left him as
bewildered as a schoolboy faced with his
first experience in love.

Love? Good Lord

The word had, somehow, forced its way
into his mind. He was appalled by its
reverberations. Instinctively, and con-
sciously too—for this was not his first ex-
perience—he recognized in himself the
symptoms of a definite desire. The fact
that this desire was completely impossible
did not destroy the fact that it existed.
The conflict instantly grew sharp in his
breast. He had a premonition of agony ——

Then Charles came in, looking grave,
and his mother and Aunt Alexandra. There
were exclamations over the Spanish shawl
then a servant appeared and spoke, and
they all filed into the dining room.

Breakfast that morning was, for Richard,
a peculiar and an unbelievable torture—a
torture accentuated by the fact that he was
quite sure his mother knew all about it.
His mother, by some uncanny female sense,
had guessed what was in his heart. She
had looked at him and smiled grimly.

His one impulse was to escape; to re-
move himself from Regina’s presence. This
much was clear: he must get away from
Ballanton. He thought—with a certain
chagrin, but also with relief—-of Captain
Mosby and the Wanderer. As soon as
breakfast was over he’d make some excuse
to get back to the yacht.

But after breakfast Charles said to him,
“I’ve something to talk over with you,
Richard. Let’s go into the library.”

So he, still thinking of the schooner, still
planning his escape, followed Charles into
the library, and after a moment his mother
came in and sat down in one of the chairs at
the famous conference table. Regina and
Aunt Alexandra could beseen outside, walk-
ing on the sunlit lawn.

“You know,” began Charles abruptly,
“that the loan was father’s greatest dream.

October 17,1928

He was trying to realize it when he died.
It was, literally, his dying thought.”

“What?” said Richard.

“The loan!” replied his mother sharply.

“Oh, yes—yes, the loan. You’ve been
working on it, haven’t you, old Charles?
Going to lend money to Europe—lots of
money ——”

“It was father’s plan for the rescue of
civilization,”’ said his brother with a rev-
erence that saved him from pompousness.

“Yes, I know.”

“And of course,
it ——”

“Heart and soul,”’ put in Mrs. Ballantine.

Charles inclined his head. “I promised
father on his deathbed that I'd carry out
his plan. I believe in it as he believed in it.
But unfortunately I’ve not been able to
work alone. It’s too vast a project for any
one house to handle. I’ve had to create a
machinery—-organize a syndicate—well, I
won’t go into that. But—you under-
stand—it’s a matter depending upon the
codperation of various financial interests
and, at bottom, the responsibility is mine.”

“The whole thing rests on Charles’
shoulders,”’ explained his mother.

“I see,” said Richard, wondering what
all this was leading to.

“Yes,” Charles went on. “It’s impos-
sible, in a matter like this, to avoid respon-
sibility. And I may say, in all humility’’—
here he glanced at his mother, who nodded
approvingly—‘“‘that my final argument in
favor of the loan is my personal integrity.
There are certain interests, certain men
who have still to be convinced. If anything
should happen now to undermine, even
slightly, their confidence in me—in my
judgment —the whole scheme would fall to
the ground.”

“Then you haven’t succeeded?”

“Not yet. But I’m very close to success.
I believe that one more drive will do it,”
said Charles, and paused, and added im-
pressively, ‘‘I intend to hold the final con-
ference tomorrow night—here—in this
room.”

“Here?”

“Yes!” said Mrs. Ballantine, glancing
with a certain exaltation about the library.
Then to Charles she exclaimed, ‘“ You must
succeed! Your father will be here to guide
you. I believe absolutely that he will be
present—in spirit.”

Richard began to feel uncomfortable.
Charles looked so solemn, and his mother’s
eyes, now directed toward the chair that
had been his father’s, were almost fanatical.

“T appreciate the problem,” he said,
“and I'm sure it’s very clever of you to
hold your final conference in the library.
But—if you don’t mind—what’s all this
got to de with me?”

Charles and his mother exchanged
glances.

“The fact is,’ said the former, “‘some-
thing has come up ——”

“A very delicate matter,” interjected
Mrs. Ballantine.

“T was detained in town last night,” con-
tinued Charles, “because a certain New
York newspaper—one that happens to dis-
approve of the loan—sent a reporter to
my office to ask whether it was true that I
was engaged to be married—to Regina.”

“Oh!” said Richard. “Then it’s no
longer a family secret. How did the news
leak out?”

* Alexandra!”’ snapped his mother.

But Charles said, “You can’t blame
Aunt Alex, mother. The original story
came from the theater—from Regina’s
former manager. Then this reporter got
hold of it and telephoned the house—yes-
terday afternoon—and Aunt Alex answered
the phone. Before she realized what was
happening the reporter had got out of her
the fact that Regina was visiting here ——”’

“T knew nothing about it tili this morn-
ing,”” said Mrs. Ballantine, clicking her
tongue.

“So of course the man put two and two
together. But before printing the story
he—thank heaven!—came to me for con-
firmation.”

(Continued on Page 92)

I’m committed to

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

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THE SATURDAY

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EVENING POST

(Continued from Page 90)

“And you,” concluded Richard rest-

| lessly, “were forced to admit that it was
| true?”

“On the contrary,” said Charles, sitting

up very straight in his chair, “I denied it.”

“You denied - =
“ Yes.”

“Denied that you were engaged to

| Regina?”

“ Yes.”

Mrs. Ballantine said rapidly, ‘“There’s

| more to it than Charles has told you.

You see”

You've really told it very badly, Charles!
to Richard again—‘‘this news-
paper reporter had made up a highly col-

| ored story—quite lurid, in fact—to the

effect that Charles was being influenced,
with regard to the loan, by a French

| dancer!”

“What? Nonsense! But Regina isn’t

| French,” objected Richard, who felt that
| in another moment he would burst out
| laughing.

“She has a French name,” observed Mrs.

| Ballantine with a certain illogical satisfac-

tion.
“But—that’s too ridiculous!” exploded
her younger son, and laughed immoder-

| ately.

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| fered to go at once

| cellent reasons
he should stay ashore. But at the moment,

Charles waited for him to subside; then,
“Precisely,” he said. “I denied the whole
story for just that reason—because it was
ridiculous. If I’d admitted the truth of my
engagement nothing on earth would have
prevented the newspaper from insinuating
the rest. I'd have been pictured as a man

| infatuated beyond reason—involved in an

”

emotional adventure ———
“How did you explain the fact that

| Regina was visiting at Ballanton?”

“I said that mother was interested in
her professionally, had been interested in
her ever since the bazaar last winter ——”’

“Well, I must say,” blurted out Richard,
“T think all this is a bit rough on her—on
Regina.”

Charles’ face twitched.

He cried suddenly, “Do you suppose I

| don’t feel that? Do you suppose it hasn't
| hurt me to deny

” He broke off, strug-
“Hurt me!” he

gling for self-possession.
said, “It’s just about—torn me in two.’

“Charles!” trumpeted his mother.

The older son looked at her with a pathos
that somehow gave him dignity.

“You needn't doubt me, mother. I'll go
through with it. Father’s dream’’—the
word sounded bitter—‘‘ comes first.’’ Then
turning to Richard he said, “I’ve talked it
over with Regina. She understands. She
was splendid about it. Splendid! She saw
why I had to do what I did. And—she of-
back to town.”

“Naturally,”” commented Richard, won-
dering what Regina's splendor had cost her.

“But I dissuaded her. I was afraid that
if she went back to town she’d be pursued
by reporters. So we decided ——-”’ Here
Charles hesitated and looked at his mother,
who promptly took the cue.

“We decided,” said Mrs. Ballantine,

| “that it would be the best thing ail around
| if Regina spent the rest of the week-end
| aboard the yacht.”

“The yacht?” repeated Richard, dazed.
“Do you mean the Wanderer?”

“Yes. Why not?”

“But I - sg

“Alexandra will be with her,” said his
mother, fixing her indomitable blue eyes
on his.

Richard felt his face go hot, but he re-
turned grimly his mother’s look.

“All right,” he said finally. “Regina
may have the Wanderer—for as long as she
likes.”” .

“Till Monday morning,” said Mrs. Bal-
lantine, and added, “I’m sure you won’t
mind entertaining your future sister-in-law
that long.”

“Oh,” answered Richard calmly, “I'll

I'll stay ashore.”

“Stay ashore?” queried his mother.

,

be

“Why should you?”

There were, no doubt, any number of ex-
besides the true one—why

October 17,1925

for the life of him, he couldn’t think of one.
There was a painful silence.

Then Charles rose abruptly. “I'll go tell
Regina,” he said, and walked quickly out
of the room.

Mrs. Ballantine looked at Richard. She
was smiling, but her eyes were hard. He
resented this hardness, though he could not
help but admire, in a way, his mother's
spirit.

“‘ My dear boy,” she said, “of course you
must stay aboard the yacht as usuai. Other-
wise Regina will feel like an interloper——”’

“That’s not my fault!”

“Unless,” continued the dowager lightly,
“you have some definite reason for not
wanting to entertain such a charming
guest.””

Richard laughed and, getting up, made
his mother an ironic little bow.

“Since there can’t be any such reason,”
he said, “I shall be most happy to have
Regina on board the Wanderer ———”’

“With Aunt Alexandra!”

“Oh, unquestionably—with Aunt Alex-
andra.”

They walked out of the library together,
and through the drawing-room.

“Ah, Richard!” breathed his mother
with a sigh. “If only it had been you!”

“What do you mean?”

“You two would have made a romance
of it. A true romance! I should have dis-
approved as a matter of principle, but it
would have been appropriate, in a way
because both you and she are capable of
madness ———”’

“Mother! Do you know what you're
saying? ’’ demanded Richard.

“No, I don’t think I do. This whole af-
fair has got on my nerves. I must go to
church, and sleep—I sleep beautifully in
church ——”

That afternoon, as he stvod at the rail to
welcome Regina and Aunt Alexandra
aboard the yacht, Richard remembered
what his mother had said. “Both you and
she are capable of madness.” He knew, the
moment Regina set foot on the schooner’s
deck, that it was so. Her look confirmed it.
Her eyes, engaging his, then glancing aloft,
marveling at the Wanderer’s tal! spars and
graceful web of rigging, were bright and
strange with wonder, with a delight too
sharp for perfect sanity. When he touched
her hand he felt this delight communicate
itself to him in a manner physical, electric.
His spirit leaped up, burning clear of all
restraint; his life seemed complete and in-
finitely novel, as though he had entered
into a new phase of being.

“If you so much as pull up the anchor,”
said Aunt Alexandra, groaning, “I'll be ill.’

Richard’s laugh sounded, to his own ears,
like a shout. Everything seemed exag-
gerated. Even the figure of Captain Mosby,
bowing imperturbably to Regina and his
aunt, appeared slightly grotesque, out of
drawing. It was a relief when, having
shown his guests to their cabins, he came
again on deck and found the sailing master
restored to his usual likeness.

“‘We’'ll have dinner on deck tonight if it
stays fine. You'll dine with us, Captain
Mosby?”

“Thank you, sir,” replied the other with-
out enthusiasm.

Richard didn’t see Regina again till that
evening. She had been settling herself, she
said, in her cabin. Oh, yes, she was quite
comfortable. It was all so luxurious, really.
She felt like a cat in a basket.

They dined at a table set under an awn-
ing on the after deck. Two ancient Floren-
tine lamps, each holding a cluster of tiny
wicks, gave them their light. Regina wore
a black dress and coral earrings—the only
jewelry that Richard had yet seen her af-
fect. Looking at her he was conscious of a
change, a subtle metamorphosis.

Later, by a natural but somewhat blurred
progress of events, he found himself alone
with her under the after-deck awning. They
were seated in two chairs pushed back
against. the rail. Over her white shoulder
he could see a great burning star. Another
jewel, he thought idly, for Regina.

(Continued on Page 94)

——

—

SF ee

——
ee

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

ln the better bakeries

they fill these pies with SUN-MAID raisins

Out of their experience of making

bread with Sun-Maid raisins—
Raisin Bread so good that millions
of families serve it as a special mid-
week treat—bakers have discovered
a secret of finer pies.

In all the better bakeries now
they're filling their raisin pies with
tender, juicy Sun-Maid raisins. And
their mince pies carry Sun-Maid
goodness in every bite.

They know, of course, that they can
buy inferior raisins for less money.

But they also know that, using

Sun-Maid, they get the flavor and

sweetness of grapes nurtured in well

kept vineyards.

And the wholesomeness that

assured by Sun-Maid's exclusive meth-

cee D |

Rausins as they come
from every vineyard,
even from vineyards
that get the utmost
care, are rot all per
fect raisins

| 2 a Tillab

By exclusive methods
Sun Maid removes all
stems and inferior
raisins, converting
them into byprod
ucts, Only Sun-Maid
is equipped to do this

| Se

So the raisins that
your baker gets from
Sun Madd are always
clean, uniform, full
flavored — quality that
you would use

is

ods of cleaning raisins, by Sun-Maid's
equipment for converting the poorer
grades of raisins into by-products.
(Only Sun-Maid has such equip-
ment. )

Try these finer pies. Bakers are
making them every day for homes
and restaurants.

Tell your baker or grocer to de-
liver one for your dinner tonight.

And, so you willsurely geta loaf of
Raisin Bread fresh from next week's

special Wednesday baking, you had

better place your order for it now.

RAISIN BREAD Sy on Wednesdays

Sp

FUL the worst

enemy to teeth

You casi fee! withh Pour tor

atch

THE SATURDAY

Out for Film

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4

leaning toward her he said, ‘‘ Regina

| later

EVENING POST

(Continued from Page 92)

“I should like to ask questions,” she
said, “but I don’t particularly want them
answered.”

“Well?”

“Why am I here? How did it happen?”

“I don’t quite know. I believe it was all
logical enough. Though, as far as that
goes, Charles’ conference isn’t till tomor-
row night—Sunday.”

“Your mother was afraid of reporters.
She told me that when your father was
dying one of them got into the house dis-
guised as a grocer’s boy ——”

“Yes. I remember. The story he wrote

| threw the market off ten points. Inciden-

tally it upset two foreign governments ——”’

“Fairy tale,” said Regina.

“A true one.”

“Oh, yes. I know. It’s all amazingly
true. That’s why it’s so incredible ——

He laughed, and she said quickly, “That
I should be involved in it!”

“How do you feel about being involved?”

“T don’t know. I really don’t under-
stand—any of it. I told Charles I did. He
was so terribly anxious that I should! But
I don’t. All I know is that I’m being car-
ried along by something stronger than my-
self, blown by the wind ——”’

“Well! And do you like that?”

“Yes, I do,” she said, and was silent a
long time, sitting back in her chair, quite
still, as though she had confessed what had
better been kept secret.

“You'd like the sea,” he told her delib-
erately.

“Do you never get tired of cruising?”

“Oh, yes. But then I go ashore and
amuse myself ———”’

“Till you get tired of that. What a selfish
and fascinating life! Is it true that sailors
have sweethearts in every port?”

“‘ Absolutely and literally true.”

“IT suppose you speak from experience,”

| she flung at him, with unexpected spiteful-
| ness.

then

For a moment he was amazed;

“Yes?”

“I think you'd better go to bed.”

“So do I—but I can’t move.”

“What?”

“This boat, this Wanderer has charmed
me. I’ve got no legs, no arms, no body—if
I move at all I must fly!”

“Regina,” he said, ‘I insist that you go
to bed!”’

She began to laugh, but her laughter
ended with a little hiss as she drew in her
breath; a tiny, startled sound. Then she
sprang up from her chair. He, too, rose, and
for an instant they stood almost touching

| each other.

“Good night!” she whispered.

“Good night, Regina.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. But it
can’t be—this can’t be true. Please tell
yourself it isn’t. Please! You must ——”

| she said, and turned and went swiftly along
| the deck toward the companionway.

Captain Mosby, coming aft some time
a short, black figure with a live coal
between his teeth—heard his name called
and moved promptly into the shadow of
the awning.

“Yes, sir.”

“Captain Mosby, I'd like your opinion.
What do you say is the most important
thing in a man’s life?”

“To go his own way, sir.”

“Ah! Thank you.” A silence; then
Richard’s voice, curiously muffled, “We
sail Monday morning, at the latest, Cap-
tain Mosby.”

“We can sail now, Mr. Richard, if you
say the word.”” The sailing master’s laconic
murmur was an endearment; it was also,

| in spite of ita apparent innocence, a shock-

ing bit of lawlessness. He, Richard, had

| only to say the word, and Captain Mosby

would sail now—with Regina in her cabin
below deck! The captain, then, under-
stood?

“That,” said his employer quietly, “would

| be to reduce life to its simplest terms; but

if one happens to be born with a sense of

| complications———"’ He paused. Captain

October 17,1925

Mosby heard “a sense of honor,” spoken in
a musing tone. Then Richard's hand pressed
his arm, and the low voice said, ““Good night,
Captain Mosby.”

“Good night, sir.”

The owner of the Wanderer went to bed,
that night, a very distressed and unhappy
young man.

The next morning at breakfast, Aunt
Alexandra informed him that Regina had
decided to spend the day sulking in her
cabin.

“Precisely what she said, my dear Rich-
ard. When I asked her whether she felt ill
she said no, that she was just sulking. She
said, ‘It’ll do me good. It always does.
I hope you don’t mind.’ Well, of course I
was sure something was wrong with her, so
I felt her pulse, but it was quite normal. So
then I asked her what it was, and she said
imagine!—that she’d left her shawl at the
house.”

“Her shawl?”

“The one you gave her. She said she
wanted it; and when I asked her why, she
said she didn’t know, but she wanted it and
wouldn’t be happy till she got it. So I said
she was foolish, and she was cross. Then
she threw her arms around me and kissed
me and said she loved me. The dear child!
I give you my word, Richard, she’s a per-
fect child—especially in her nightgown.”

“ Alexandra!” growled Richard. “ Drink
your coffee. It’s getting cold.”

So there was no Regina, no tangible
woman figure with which to cope that day.
There was, instead, the ghost of her; the
imagined form uttering words out of the
air: “This can’t be true. Please tell your-
self it isn’t. Please! You must ——”

But that night when it was dark, when
many lights were burning along the shore,
she came on deck, and crept up to Richard
leaning against the after rail.

“T want my shawl.”

“Have you had a good sulk?” he asked,
staring over the side.

“Yes. But I want my shawl.”

He didn’t speak for some time. At last
he said, without turning, without looking
at her, “All right.”

“You'll get it for me?”

He said, as though speaking to himself,
“T’ll take the dinghy,” and mumbled some-
thing about needing exercise. She gath-
ered that the dinghy was a rowboat.

“T’ll go with you.”

“No.”

“As far as the pier.”

Anothersilence. Then heasked, “Why?”
And she answered, “ Because I want to.”
And he said finally, “ All right. Come on.”

“It looks like a duck,”’ she said when she
saw the dinghy—a vague, squat shape lying
at the foot of the yacht’s ladder—and she
laughed at the absurdity of it. ‘Charles
will be holding his conference, and I'll be
floating around in a boat like a duck.”

There was a faint recklessness in her
laughter.

Richard laughed too. It was a relief to
be doing something, to be putting his
strength into rhythmic strokes of the oars.
They went smoothly through the still, dark
water—these two in a little shell iost in the
darkness.

But halfway to the shore he said, “ Nice,
isn’t it? Let’s paddle around a bit.” And
Regina said “Let's!” And after amoment,
“I’m trailing my hand in the water. It’s
warm. I'd like to jump in.”

“Regina ——.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Can you swim?”

es,” she said, and added reflectively,
“T could peel off my stockings and tuck my
dress into my bloomers ——-”

“But you don’t dare,” he said, rowing
steadily.

“Why not?”

“Because the other Regina might turn up
to haunt you.’

“That creature!” she ‘exclaimed, “T’ve
been struggling with her all day. Do you
know what she wanted to do? Go ashore
and peek in at the windows of the library!
But I said no and no

(Continued on Page 96)

OO, ED: AO -

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

A Finer, Luxurious 4-Door Sedan
Priced Less than a 2-Door Coach

Twentieth Century Sedan

now $ $1490 obi

Sets New Time
in Dizzy Climb

The Pikes Peak Race in which
Chandler broke all records was offi-
cially sanctioned by the American
Automobile Association. Pikes Peak
is the highest automobile highway in
the world. Chandler’s time for the
124% mile climb was 17 minutes,
48 4-5 seconds. The previous record
was 18 minutes, 15 seconds.

CHANDLER MOTOR

CH

Chandler Wins Pikes Peak
Race, Breaking all Records

NOTHER great victory has been won
by Chandler with its marvelous Pikes
Peak Motor—the breaking of all time records
in the recent annual mountain-climbing race
up the steep, treacherous slope of Pikes Peak,
14,109 feet high.

A stock Chandler motor clipped practi-
cally thirty seconds off the best previous
Pikes Peak climbing record —thus adding
one more to the many performance records
possessed by Chandler.

The news of this triumph—coupled as it
is with the announcement of important new
developments in body-building, together
with large price reductions—is still another
evidence of the remarkable extent of Chand-
ler value.

The new Chandler Twentieth Century
Sedan is reduced $505—a finer, big, roomy
4-door Sedan now priced less than a 2-door
coach!

Here is a beauty appeal, luxury appeal,
power appeal, price appeal—all together and
in abundant measure. Here is a real devel-
opment in modern coach-building—built on
a chassis that Chandler has constantly im-
proved and perfected.

Pikes Peak, Mt. Washington, the Conti-
nental Divide—on all of these and many
others Chandler holds the record. You can
set a pace with this car and hold it mile after
mile, hour after hour, hill after hill--and
thoroughly enjoy every mile, every hour,
every hill.

All the new Chandler models have been
reduced in price. The Metropolitan Sedan
De Luxe at $1795 and the Seven-Passenger
Sedan at $1895 are both reduced $400.
The Brougham, at $1695, is reduced $350.
The Comrade Roadster, now $1695, is re-
duced $100. Open models, too, have new
low prices. All prices f. o. b. Cleveland.

CAR COMPANY, CLEVELAND; Export Division, 1819 Broadway, New Y City

NDLERJ

96 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

(Continued from Page 94)

oo
Whe n business brings you geet have come on board the
© tol hiladelphia alba tare Tc Wa
AY

“No, Richard—please! She isn’t worth
it.”

“She’s my sweetheart,” he said and
stopped rowing, and sat with his head
bowed, smiling to himself. It was a tre-
mendous satisfaction to have said those
three words, to have let the truth go out of
him in that sentence. He felt his mind and
his body freed from a burden.

They drifted in a deep silence. Through-
out this pause he smiled. Then he was
aware, dimly, of Regina making swift
movements in the stern of the boat.

a mr “Your sweetheart!”’ she sang out. “I’m

a Pac me) f j | going to drown her ——-”

Denes PETIT He had an impression of a child’s figure
atl standing up before him. Bare legs, white
bloomers, a dress caught up—while he sat
spellbound—and tucked in like a blouse.
Then her wild laugh and a blurred arching
of the white body ———

The boat jerked suddenly sidewise. He
had a sense of incredulity, which imme-
EAR in Mind that there is Now within igen seins samo we pesal arb
. : eet astern he saw her head bob up; then it
this Friendly Town, a great New Inn, seemed to disappear in the darkness ——

wherein you will find Warm Welcome, “Regina!” he shouted.

: There was no answer. He clutched at
Courtesy . Alert Attention to your Needs, the oars, struck one of them with his hand

and Thought upon your Comfort. and unshipped it. It floated away. He,
LS : ‘ , with an oath, pulled off his shoes, spran
Its location is inside the busiest Commercial Dis- upon the ann and dived into the » 6
trict, with the Town’s great Marts at hand. His impulse was simply to share with
More than twelve hundred homelike Guest on tas nee "wee
Chambers there are here, each having outside Light | came up with her, swimming strongly and
and Air, Bath, end Circulating Ice-water. easily toward shore, he realized that she

was in no danger.
And more than half a hundred Sample-Rooms, Instantly the adventure took on its true

the finest in the Town, to accommodate Displays aspect, and he called to her, “You're
of Merchandise. mad!”

: “T’ve drowned her—the other Regina
Withal, an old-fashion’d Hospitality, true to | she’s at the bottom of the Sound, with the

to Deng the Philadelphia Traditions, does permeate the House. | mermaids.”
: “Save your breath!” he commanded
_ squi- roughly.
Centennial % TT | “J'm all right. Where’s the boat? The
Exposition 2 wig | little fat duck "
: ‘ / , : “ Derelict!’’ he snapped in reply.
mose” aseal >, They reached the shore and crawled out
1926 4 —— 5 ~ | on the stony shingle.

, | “My feet!” said Regina with a faint
cry. So he lifted her in his arms and carried
her up the shelving bank, through a sparse

| growth of bushes and out onto the grass
lawn of Ballanton.

Before them the house burned hot with
| lights and yet remained a monstrous
| shadow.

“Put me down,” said Regina.

“Not till you tell me whether my sweet-

heart is dead.”

“IT tell you she’s with the mermaids.”

He put her on her feet and they began to

walk toward the house, keeping well out of
| the light that streamed from its windows.

Regina had let down her bedraggled dress
| and felt, she said, amazingly respectable.

“Where are your shoes, Richard? I don’t

hear them squashing.”
Main entrance on famous Chestnut Street “Left them in the boat,”
where your welcome begins “It’s nice to go barefoot on soft grass.”’
“Look here!” he said, stopping. “ Either
we're insane, or this is damned funny. Lu-
dicrous! We ought to be howling our heads
off ws

“*I don’t feel like howling. I feel happy—
and peaceful. Quite religious, in fact. Be-

cause r ve just drowned that creature, that
NKLIN =
They skirted the edge of the lawn till
they reached the path leading through the
PHILA DELPHIA. garden. “Go to the door of the dining room
—— and wait for me there,” he said. “I'll let
1D) ‘ y you in.”
| Chestnut at Ninth Street | He watched her moving away from him
or | like a slender, stately ghost. Then he went
Operating the on around the house and entered it by way

poe weaegar ved Horace Leland Wiggins, -Alanaging Director of the servants’ perch. He could hear the
Sentinels rei ging servants talking and moving about in the

(hotel
"the wa. Charles F. Wicks, Resident Manager | kitchen.

*,

October 17,1925

A man’s voice said, “Mrs. Ballantine
will serve the wine herself, as she did in Mr.
Ballantine’s day.” So Charles’ conference
was still going on in the library! But there
was no one in the entrance hall, and the
butler’s pantry was dark. He went through
the pantry into the dining room, groped his
way to the docr that gave on the terrace,
and opened it for Regina. She stepped into
the room, stumbling against him and catch-
ing his arm.

“Richard, I’m going to laugh! Please do
something to stop me.”

“No. You mustn’t. They’ll hear you!”

“T—can’t—help it. Do you remember
how your mother looked when we got
caught in the rain and came dashing in?”
Her voice broke hysterically. ‘I’m so
much wetter now ——-”’

“Regina!”” he implored, and laughed,
himself, helplessly.

Then somehow she was in his arms and
her lips were pressed hard against his—a
kiss brief and miraculous and blinding.

“T love you, Regina!”’ he whispered.

“No, no. It’s impossible. I won’t have
it. Let me go, Richard.”

Afterward, in his room upstairs, having
found dry flannels in his closet and put
them on— Regina had gone into Aunt Alex-
andra’s room—he decided that what he
wanted was a drink. So he went back
downstairs to the dining room, took a de-
canter from the sideboard and poured him-
self a glass of whisky.

The liquor warmed kim and made sport
of the confusion in his mind. He sat down
in a chair, in the darkness, with the de-
canter on the table beside him.

There was a light in the hall. From
where he sat he could see the old-fashioned
crystal chandelier mildly glittering, the
shine of it reflected in the lower steps of the
grand stairway. It fascinated him.

Then he saw a figure draped in a golden
brown shawl come down the stairs and pass
under the crystal chandelier. It crossed
quickly the swath of light in the hall and
was gone out of his vision.

Regina!

He got up and followed her. The front
door of the house stood open. He stepped
out on the terrace and looked for her and
couldn’t find her—till finally, at the far end
of the house, where the glow was brightest,
he caught sight of her golden shawl.

When he reached her she was standing,
quite still, near one of the windows of the
library, staring in.

He touched her arm and she, without
moving, whispered, * ‘The archangels -

“The gang!” said Richard, and added,

“I've drunk a lot of whisky

In the famous Ballantine library a com-
pany of very solemn gentlemen stood about
the conference table with wineglasses in
their hands. At the head of the table, with
Charles standing beside her, his hand rest-
ing on her shoulder, sat Mrs. Ballantine,
erect and smiling. There was a sudden mur-
mur from the closed room, and to the dow-
ager of Ballanton the wineglasses were lifted
in unmistakable tribute.

Outside, on the terrace, a low voice said
close to Richard’s ear, “The Regina who
should have died isn’t dead. She’s more
alive tonight than she’s ever been before.
She wants to dance ——”’

“Dance?”

“She wants to commit a sacrilege. Will
you play for her?”

“Play—what?”

“The waltz!”

“Why?” he asked, confused.

“‘ Because it’s the end of the world,” an-
swered the low, clear voice, ‘‘and there
must be music—a waltz! You know there
must be music,”’ she said, and looked at
him, unsmiling, out of great, dark, strangely
tragic eyes.

ur

HE company of very solemn gentlemen

had gone at last from the library. Charles
and his mother were alone. She, still sitting
erect and indomitable in her chair, was
saying that she had felt his father’s spirit
present at the conference.

(Continued on Page 98)

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

Four-Door Sedan

*995

Former Price

$1195

f. 0. b. Cleveland

Now the Two Big Buys of
the Closed Car Market

Real 4-Door Sedans, not 2-Door Coaches!

And all over the world Cleveland Six
is noted for its wonderful ‘“*One-Shot”’
Lubrication System. One press of your
heel on a plunger and you lubricate
every part of the chassis in two seconds
—while the car is standing still or trav-
eling at 60 miles an hour.

smart lines . . . gleaming finish . . . deep,
restful cushions. . . fine upholstery .. .
with four-door convenience and full
five-passenger elbow-room and leg-
room ... and selling at new low prices
that save the buyer a great deal of
money.

N the full flush of the greatest year

in its history, Cleveland Six announces
a reduction of $200 on its Four-Door
Sedan and the new Special Four-Door
Sedan. '

Here are two of the lowest priced six-
cylinder 4-door Sedans in America.

Two fine, beautiful, comfortable, power- Other Cleveland Six models have new,

In the Rocky Mountains of the West

ful, reliable automobiles .. .
prizes in value!

Long, low-swung, roomy bodies...

two real

and the Appalachians of the East—
wherever hills rise steeply and twist
sharply—Cleveland Sixes are winning
many brilliant climbing records.

lower prices, too. See them. See the
values that are attracting thousands of
knowing buyers. See today’s most ap-
pealing motor car investments.

(The “One-Shot” Lubrication System is licensed under Bowen Products Corp. patents)

CLEVELAND AUTOMOBILE COMPANY, CLEVELAND; Export Division, 1819 Broadway, ew York City

CLEVELAND SIX

Special 4-Door Sedan

1295

Former Price

1495

f. o. b. Cleveland

THE SATURDAY

MEWOCMS CARLTON, raemoeny @RORGE WE ATKING, pnet vicernesioent
fend the jollowicg menage. “sublont to the tavena on bast hovedl, erflioh are hereby agreed to eee

LITTLE ROCK ARK 1926 sue 51

MBX A COLLINGA

CARB CURTIS PULLISGRING CO PRIL' DELPHIA PESHSTLYANIA

COOMPRY GRATLEUBK VERE 4! Com MINSpsY STOP JUST HALF BrOVON S8OP

J GCREBS NOPDIS

~eGumtTY (jentleman

made its first appearance asa monthly
magazine with the September issue—
and here’s what happened!

PASADENA, CALIF.—Having many calls for Country Gen-
tleman in Los Angeles and unable to supply. Need at least
250 at once.—Hartley Green.

WASHINGTON, D. C.—Stands and stores located outlying
districts completely sold out of Country Gentleman.—
Cc. P, Horne.

JOPLIN, MO.—Can use 75 more September Country Gen-
tleman. One boy is building up a route and wants 40 and
newsstands are sold out and can use balance. Please increase
my draw to 300 copies for October.—Charles A. Reinfro.

LA GRANGE, ILL.—The new Country Gentleman sells like
hot cakes. Did not have half enough. Be sure and send
75.—Robert Eckel.

AMERICUS, GA.—The new, big, monthly Country Gentle-
man sure is great. Scare up 25 more of them for me.—
Henry M. Coleman.

MILWAUKEE, WIS.—The new Country Gentleman went
over big. Newsstands sold out first day and boys are wild
about it. All my branches want more copies. Kindly double
my order for October.—C. A. Henes.

TURTLE CREEK, PA.—The September Country Gentle-
man was completely sold out the first day and the kids are
yelling for more. 1 will need 125 of the October issue.—
L. J. Grumet.

THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY

INDEPENDENCE SQUARE, PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA

SUATTLE WASA AUC 29, 1925,

he de BOLL
OGNPAS PYOLISA CRG CO PHILA PA
BU PGUAND FOR NSW CBRE EAOM OUTSIDE DRALSAS ALSO ALL BRACES.
DEMAND INDIOATAY SLATCLR CONSIGNMENT SHOULD BD THOUSAND COPIES
OSBORNE «DANSON

| exclaimed,
| Regina!’’

EVENING POST

(Continued from Page 96)

“When I brought in the wine and cake,
as I used to when he was alive, I knew that
he was here—I felt him near me—and I
understood that he had come to look on at
your success.”

“*My success,”’ repeated Charles. “Yes,
I’ve succeeded. But—for the moment—I
can’t remember quite what it means.”

“It means that the world will go on,”
answered his mother simply and with pro-
found conviction.

They looked at each other, understand-
ing each other, constrained to this under-
standing by involuntary processes, by a
ruthless similarity of mind. Charles, recog-
nizing this similarity, smiled, and leaning
down as though by compulsion would have
kissed his mother’s cheek.

But at that moment, in the drawing-
room adjoining the library, they heard the
Ballantine organ booming out an insane
waltz.

Charles rushed to the connecting door
and opened it. He, and his mother stand-
ing just behind him, saw Richard seated in
the organ loft and Regina, in a golden
shawl, dancing.

She, like a bright leaf blown by capricious
winds, danced alone in the great room, ex-
pressing with her body, with the rhythmic
importance of her body, all that was op-
posite and contrary to what had gone on,
so solemnly, in the Ballantine library; put-
ting forth her life in a kind of defiance to
that world of fixed and formal accomplish-
ment; that world which would go on.

It lasted only a little while. A fragment
of a dance; a fragment of defiance. Then
she had finished, and had sunk down at
Charles’ feet in a pose of humility that was
somehow her triumph.

“ Regina!” he said.
pen to be—here?”

“We came ashore,” she answered, not
raising her head, “in a boat—like a duck—
to get my shawl ——”’

“You were dancing.
dance, Regina?”’

“Because I'm not dead.”

“But—I don’t understand. What does
it mean?”

Then she lifted her head and looked at
him. “ Your mother knows what it means.”

Mrs. Ballantine spoke promptly. ‘It
means that you're not going to marry
Charles. For which I thank God!”

“Thank music,” said Regina, rising
slowly from the floor. ‘Thank all bright
colors, and quick sounds, and thank—the
wind ——”

Charles said with a curious, futile im-
patience, ““‘What? The wind? I don’t
understand.”” Then catching her wrist he
“You're out of your mind,

**How do you—hap-

Why should you

“No, no! I’m quite myself. Look,

| Charles, you see? And I want to go now.

”

Please, I must go.
“You can’t! I won't let you ——
“Charles!” said his mother.

"9

October 17,1925

“But—how can she? At this time of
night? It’s impossible.”

Then Richard laughed and came plung-
ing down from the organ loft. His face was
red and jolly, his blond hair was indecently
disheveled.

“Regina wants to go,” he cried. “It’s
easy enough. I’ll show you how!” And
picking her up bodily, for the second time
that night, he carried her in his arms out of
the room and out of the house which would
have belonged, but for certain happenings,
to the Princess Regina.

On the path leading down to the landing
stage they met Aunt Alexandra, accom-
panied by a short, stubby male figure.

“Captain Mosby!” hailed Richard.

“I thought you were drowned, sir,”
the answer; “and the lady too.”

“They found the boat!”’ quavered Aunt
Alexandra, and burst readily into tears.

“The dinghy, sir. It drifted afoul of our
cable ——

“I see,’ said Richard. Then, holding
fast to Regina's hand, he leaned forward
and whispered at length to Aunt Alexandra.
Whereupon that lady’s sobs stopped ab-
ruptly.

“My dear boy!” she breathed, and
kissed him and kissed Regina, and said
“Well ——” and turned to Captain
Mosby with unexpected vigor: “Don’t
you bother about me! You take these two
young people back to the yacht and never
let them out of your sight again!”

Regina seized the older woman’s arm.

“You don’t understand. I’m only go-
ing—to New York ——

“You silly child!” replied Aunt Alex-
andra tremulously, and went up the path
muttering to haveell, ” I must get the whole
story from Edith -

When they were iebhely on board the
schooner Richard said to Regina, “‘ You're
going to marry me. Captain Mosby will
marry us tonight.”

She answered with extraordinary petu-
lance, “I'll do nothing of the sort. You've
spoiled the dream. I hate you!” And
throwing herself down in a deck chair, she
sat inconsolably weeping, her dark head on
her arm.

Some two hours later Richard came aft
and found her peacefully asleep in the
chair.

He bent down and kissed her. She woke
with astart and, realizing suddenly that the
schooner was under way, said, “‘Have we
got to New York?”

“We're not going to New York,” he
answered casually. ‘‘We're heading the
other way, up the Sound--out to sea.”

“Then you're taking me against my
will?”

She was silent a long time. Finally she
lifted her arms and sighed, and drew his
head down against her breast.

“Then that’s all right. That makes it
real—-because that’s how I want to be
taken,” said Regina.

came

MARGE
“Wotta Life! Here We've Gone and Put Up the Whole Business, and I Just
Reatized That They Didn't Send Us a Cetiart"’

STE en,

Se ee ee AE

THE HOOVER COMPANY,

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

Then he saw it
from her point of view

It was often a source of wonder to
him, how she managed to acco
plish so much. But he never kn
the cost to her in effort, in ti
the freedom which a ma

She had found dirt i
should have been
discovered that t
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he result? A Hoover, of
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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST October 17, 1925

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!

Having heard this tale, and seen it con-
firmed on a registration slip of the Bavarian
Fox Terrier Club, and having observed the
wonder-beautiful dog’s reaction to the word
“Pfui!” I began to make a hasty calcula-
tion of the bales of German currency which
at that particular time, owing to the rapid
depreciation of the German mark, were
giving my garments the contour of second-
class mail pouches.

The wonder-beautiful dog’s master, how-
ever, impatiently waved aside my tentative
mention of a million marks and coarsely
stated that he was out for big money. He
must, he said with bulging and slightly ap-
prehensive eyes, have five dollars in Amer-
ican money; and lacking that, the dog
Dick remained in Munich.

It struck me as odd at the time that a
German dog should be registered under the
name of Dick, which is an English and not
a German diminutive; and it was not until
some months later that it occurred to me
that the word “Dick” in German means
thick.

At any rate, I purchased the wonder-
beautiful dog for five dollars in American
money, deposited another five dollars to
make sure that he would be fed on horse
meat and otherwise lapped in luxury for
three months, at the end of which time I
planned to return to America, and further
arranged that at the end of the three
months his mistress should chaperon him
from Munich in the South of Germany to
Bremen in the North of Germany and per-
sonally oversee his embarkation on the
Dampfschiff President Harding.

This arrangement, it might be added in
passing, brought the cost of the wonder-
beautiful dog to the staggering sum of
twenty-two dollars and eighty-seven cents.

In addition to having the attentions of
the lady chaperon on his journey from
Munich to Bremen, the dog Dick was also
inspected at various stops by friendly
American consuls and consuls general. An
unusually large number of United States
senators and congressmen had visited Eu-
rope during that year, and most of them
had cluttered up our consular offices in
order to get their money changed and to
find out where furs and jewelry could
be purchased most advantageously and to
have their hands held by the consuls; and
this fact may account for the amiability
displayed by American consular officers
when they were showered with telegrams
urging them to take all possible steps to
see that the dog Dick changed cars at
the right places, embarked on the right
steamer, and was not suffering from hun-
ger, thirst, homesickness or that dragging-
down sensation.

My Wonder-Beautiful Dick

It may have been a tremendous relief
to them to do something for a non-
representative and a non-senator; even, in
short, for a dog. And again, they may have
been kind to the dog Dick merely in order
to hasten his departure and thus escape
additional deluges of telegrams. A consular
officer would do almost anything to avoid
being awakened at half past two in the
morning by a worried and suspicious em-
ploye of the German Telegraph Bureau, as
were large numbers of consuls in Prussia
and Bavaria during the late summer of
1928, and being obliged to paddle down-
stairs and with shaking fingers take in and
pry open a dark-brown telegram, reading,
in effect, as follows:

LILLE (or Paris or Nancy or Rheims
or Verdun or Bapaume or Cambrai or Brus-
sels or Antwerp, as the case may have been)
AUG. 30 1923 AM CONSUL SELZER-
WASSER GERMANY MY DOG SAIL-
ING 8S. S. GIESSHUBLER BREMEN
SEPT 5 STOP AFRAID PROPER AC-
COMMODATIONS NOT MADE STOP
PLEASE USE YOUR INFLUENCE

THE SATURDAY

MY STUPID DOGS

(Continued from Page 11)

WITH CAPTAIN TO LET DOG SLEEP
ON HIS BED STOP TELL CAPTAIN
NOT GIVE DOG CHICKEN BONES AS
BAD FOR STOMACH STOP.

Notwithstanding the distinguished an-
cestry of the wonder-beautiful dog Dick,
his quick grasp of the baffling expletive
“Pfui!” the nourishing horse meat on
which he was fed during his formative
period, and his association with the intel-
lectual cream of the American consular
service, he has signally failed to develop
even a tithe, as the saying goes, of the
astuteness that has characterized the dogs
of literature. I do not know the size of a
tithe; but it could be pretty small, and
still be larger than the astuteness that my
present dog, together with all his predeces-
sors in office, has developed.

Straws, it is said, show which way the
mattress has been stuffed; and from the
lesser acts of the wonder-beautiful dog Dick
one can readily gauge his greater follies.

He has, for example, a passion for lying
among feet when not engaged in examining
the house for likely mouse or chipmunk
coverts. When I repair to my workroom
to engage in a struggle with what is laugh-
ingly known as the Muse, the dog Dick
accompanies me and stands in the middle
of the room with his ears laid well back,
listening for something at which to growl,
until I have taken my seat at my desk.
He then inserts himself between my feet
with almost devilish cunning, so that his
head rests on one of my feet and all four
of his paws are pressed firmly against my
ankles.

Dogs Forever Underfoot

There would be nothing wrong with this
attitude except for the fact that any per-
son engaged in literary composition is, as
is well known, obliged from time to time to
tilt back in his chair for such purposes as
to wish that he was engaged in some less
arduous task than literary composition, or
to observe the actions of the flies on the
ceiling, or to perform minor operations on
his finger nails and cuticle, or merely to
permit his mind to turn over in neutral for
ten or fifteen minutes. At such moments
the dog Dick twitches slightly, and care-
fully but unconsciously places a paw or his
nose or his tail on the exact spot from
which one of the legs of the chair has been
lifted.

When, therefore, the leg of the chair is
eventually lowered, it lands on some por-
tion of the dog Dick’s anatomy with a dull
crunch. Instantly the air is shattered by
a wild scream of anguish, and the dog Dick
scrambles to his feet with a commotion
that might be equaled, but not exceeded,
by five or six wildcats fighting in a barrel.
All literary activities at once cease while
the dog Dick hobbles painfully around the
room, tentatively testing his damaged
paw—or nose or tail.

Having with some difficulty persuaded
himself that he is still intact, he fawns fooi-
ishly and ingratiatingly on me to show that
he harbors no malice, and immediately en-
twines himself with my feet again. Con-
sequently the whole horrifying catastrophe
is reénacted from two to five times daily.

It is perfectly apparent to me, of course,
that if the dog Dick had even half a tithe
of the mental capacity of the dogs of litera-
ture he would have learned long ago to
keep away from feet, and would content
himself by lying in the corner of the room
farthest removed from my desk.

The suggestion has been made by per-
sons unfamiliar with the dog Dick that if
my own mertal capacity were what it
ought to be I would solve the problem by
remembering not to tilt back in my chair
or by refusing to permit him to enter my
workroom at all.

The first suggestion can only be dis-
missed with the contempt that it deserves;

EVENING POST

for every author knows that at least two-
fifths of an author’s time must be spent
tilted back in a chair with a completely
vacant mind. If chair tilting among
authors should be abolished by law, the
literary output of the nation would prob-
ably fall to zero in ten years’ time.

I have made an effort to carry out the
second suggestion, but it only causes the
dog Dick to stand just outside my work-
room, with his nose pressed to the crack
between the floor and the door, and blow
violently through it at five-minute inter-
vals. Here again is another cruel revela-
tion of his mental backwardness. If he
had the ability of the dogs of literature he
would realize that there is only one door to
the room, and that I could not leave it
without being immediately discovered. He
feels obliged, however, to create an un-
endurable disturbance every five minutes
by obtaining nasal confirmation of my
presence through the crack under the door.

His uncontrollable ambition to lie among
feet is particularly noticeable during games
of chance in which I occasionally partici-
pate. In the vicinity of my home lives
a distinguished novelist and playwright
who—not content with the staggering roy-
alties that he extracts from publishers
and theatrical managers—takes a fiendish
delight in luring his neighbors into that
hellish game mah-jongg and wrenching
additional income from them by his almost
devilish ingenuity.

On the frequent occasions when I have
unwillingly contributed to his already
swollen revenues, the dog Dick has placed
himself beneath the exact center of the
gaming table before the players have taken
their seats. Since the table is small, the
start of the game finds the dog Dick in
close contact with eight human feet. Some
of them he lies on and some he lies under.
From time to time during the progress of
the game, the ire of three players is fre-

quently aroused at the same moment, with |

the result that the dog Dick is briskly
and simultaneously kicked and stamped.

One would naturally suppose that one ex- |

perience of this sort would be enough for
even a lack-witted dog; but the dog Dick
merely emits several low moans, bursts out
from under the table, shakes himself
smartiy, walks around to the other side of
the table and crawls in among the feet
again. This peculiarly stupid habit is not
displeasing to the players during chilly
weather; but I know of no way in which it
can be regarded as a sign of intelligence.

Four-Legged Aristocrats

The dogs of literature have been great |

hands to fetch and carry for their masters. |
As I recollect it, they would pull the baby |

away from in front of the fire engine, bring
the master his hat and stick before he set
out on a walk, remove the soiled dishes
from the table, take in the evening paper,
operate the elevator in a burning building
by pulling on the starting rope, and even
pick the coals out of the furnace clinkers.

My dogs have never displayed much |

ability along these lines. The dog Stocky,
I remember —so called because he was pur-
chased with a small sum snatched from the

wolves of Wall Street by a small transac- |

tion in the stock of the Midvale Steel Com-
pany—was an excellent carrier of letters

and newspapers, up to a certain point. He |
would clutch the newspapers and letters |
proudly in his mouth until he encountered |

another dog. In his eagerness to investi-
gate the stranger’s social standing, he
would then carefully secrete the newspapers

and letters in an out-of-the-way place. |
The excitement of the encounter, however, |

invariably caused him to forget where he
had hidden his burden, so that his value as
a letter and newspaper carrier was con-
siderably impaired—unless one didn't ob-
ject to getting his letters and newspapers
from a week to five months late.

Can you buck

the line of winter?

Ir’s the hardest game you've got to
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Will winter win?

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cold again.
Or you?

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For over forty years, the finest of underwear

(Copyright 1925, Wright's Underwear Co,, Inc.)

THE SATURDAY

Why not give
them the food they need in
a form they love?

——

That's the modern

—

toasty grains taste like nutmeats . . . crisp
and crunchy. You eat them because you
love them, because when “nothing tastes
good” they tempt and entice the appetite!

idea in diet. These

ODERN diet starts by tempting
the appetite. Instead of eating
foods you don't care much for simply
because they are “good for you,” you
eat foods that are good for you because
your appetite calls for them.
That's much better, you'll agree.
Quaker Puffed Rice is that kind

of cereal. It's as crunchy as fresh toast,

QUAKER

and as crispy. Its flavor is different
from any cereal you have ever tasted

. it's as enticing as a confection.

Children love it, because it is dif-
ferent. And that stops coaxing them
to eat a needed food.

Men like it, because it breaks the
monotony of too-often-served dishes.
And that solves another frequent
problem.

And . .. its food value is that of
fine, selected rice. Digests easily be-
cause it is steam puffed . . . each grain
is eight times the size of an ordinary
pruin of rice. Every food cell thus is
y

roken.
* 7 *

Serve with milk or cream, or in
bowls of half and half. Try with
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not disturb sleep. Try, too, asa lighter
luncheon for clearer minded afternoons.

Also Puffed Wheat
PE a COMPANY

EVENING POST

The dog Stocky—also a wire-haired ter-
rier—was taught to eat his dinner on an
outspread copy of the Boston Evening
Transcript in order that the floor might not
be soiled; and a large amount of admira-
tion was aroused among visitors by his
ability to hunt out a copy of the Transcript,
when ordered to do so, and spread it in
front of the fireplace in readiness for his
dinner. His lack of true intelligence was
held up before the public gaze in a shocking
manner on one unfortunate occasion when,
on being ordered to bring the Transcript,
he triumphantly pounced on a copy of Mr.
Hearst’s Boston American, which I had
inadvertently failed to conceal before giv-
ing the order. The full horror of this situa-
tion will probably be more apparent to
New Englanders than to the lay reader.

The successor of the dog Stocky worked
hard to become a carrier of parcels; but
unfortunately he had been brought up in
very select kennels among the idle aris-
tocracy of the North Shore of Massachu-
setts, and was consequently a victim of the
neurasthenic tendencies so frequently found
among our rapidly increasing loafing set.
As a result, he would invariably be over-
come in the middle of each effort by an
overwhelming sense of the futility of his
endeavors, and would dejectedly drop his
newspaper in the middle of the road and
definitely refuse to go on with the ex-
periment.

He was averse to meeting new people;

| and when guests entered the home he
| would go into the country and crawl down

a favorite woodchuck hole, where it was
pleasantly dark and practically secluded,
and spend hours in barking hoarsely at the
single tenant woodchuck. After the guests
had gone he would emerge from the wood-

| chuck hole, thoroughly covered with mud

and very large, very black woodchuck
fleas, dodge rapidly back home and throw
himself timidly but firmly on the couches
and easy-chairs, where he would unosten-
tatiously shake out the fleas.

I took up the matter of his excessive
stupidity and timidity with the aristo-
cratic owner of the aristocratic kennels
from which he came; and the aristocratic
owner wrote back to me in typically aristo-
cratic fashion that the timidity and stupid-
ity of the dog were no doubt due to the fact
that one of my servants had secretly
beaten him. This theory would have been
a good one if (1) I had had any servants,
which I hadn’t; and if (2) any servant
could have managed to get near enough to
the dog to beat him, which he couldn’t.

An extra-large buck woodchuck finally
resented his intrusion to such a degree that
he tackled him at the bottom of a hole.
The poor wretch killed the woodchuck, but
passed into the great unknown himself
from the ripping that he took in killing
him. Like many other stupid aristocrats,
he died game.

A Dog's Life

The neurasthenic wire-haired terrier vied
for my affections with an extremely robust
but extremely clumsy Airedale purchased in
infancy from a bird-and-dog store on Fifth
Avenue. He was loud, noisy and affection-
ate, and the unluckiest dog that ever
wagged a tail. His—the dog Stub’s—life
was a series of misfortunes. As soon as he
recovered from worms, he was attacked by
distemper. As soon as he recovered from
distemper, he came down with mange. As
soon as he recovered from mange, he was
run over by a truck and twisted all out of
shape. As soon as he recovered from the
truck, he laid open two feet on broken
glass. As soon as his feet healed, a collie
inflicted painful tooth wounds on his back.
When he recovered from the tooth wounds,
he nearly passed out with strychnine poi-
soning. When the strychnine was elimi-
nated from his system, he developed ran-
ula, which is a spongy growth under the
tongue that has to be eliminated with a
pair of pruning shears every few months.

Any unoccupied periods between these
misfortunes were adequately filled with

October 17,1925

colds, worms, flea epidemics, general mis-
eries and more worms. Whenever he leaped
up affectionately on a little child he would
knock the child over, whereupon one of the
child’s relatives or caretakers would give
him a severe kicking.

He was deeply attracted by the human
voice raised in song, and would travel long
distances in order to fawn on the singer and
join in the song. He had astrong barytone
voice which occasionally broke into second
tenor; but owing to the fact that his voice
was untrained and would frequently slip
off key, his efforts were usually unappre-
ciated by those that he endeavored to as-
sist, and generally resulted in his being the
recipient of a number of well-directed
blows. Yet to the day of his disappear-
ance—he walked around a corner in front
of me in Washington one sunny spring
afternoon, and when I rounded the corner
a few seconds later he had vanished so
effectually that no amount of whistling or
calling or advertising or hunting or reward-
offering was ever able to bring him back—-
to the day of his disappearance he was
unable to resist the temptation to burst into
song with any friend or the merest casual
acquaintance, in spite of the fact that his
best efforts were certain to bring him noth-
ing but pain and humiliation.

The dog Stub was also unable to resist
the lure of open water. On spying a pond
or a brook or the ocean, he would march
into it with stately tread, lay his ears back,
roll up his eyes, stick his nose straight into
the air and switch his hind quarters under
the surface with an air of voluptuous de-
light, mixed with sweet anguish at the sud-
denness of the chill. He would then ieap
gayly to shore, gallop rapidly back to the
persons that he was accompanying at the
moment, get as close to them as possible,
and then shake himself vigorously and
spray them liberally with water. No
amount of guttural cursing or rock-hurling
or stick-wielding was ever sufficient to
make him remember to shake himself out
of range.

A Passion for Golf Balls

I might add that all my dogs, from the
original Dick, a water spaniel that I owned
at the age of eight, down to the wonder-
beautiful dog Dick, have been adamant in
their determination not to shake water
from their coats after a swim unless they
could shake it on the garments and the be-
longings of their nearest and dearest human
friends.

The dog Stub was a fairly good parcel
carrier, but I was never able to teach him
to carry a newspaper in such a way that it
was readable after he had delivered it. Be-
ing large and active and clumsy, he had a
constantly moist mouth. Ordinarily the
moisture dripped from his tongue onto
the rugs, furniture, books, bric-a-brac and
carefully cleaned shoes in his vicinity; but
when he carried a newspaper it soaked
through the paper and made it about as
readable as the condemned paper money in
the United States Mint after it has cooked
for half a day.

The wonder-beautiful dog Dick displays
certain superficial signs of intelligence in
the matter of retrieving, and frequently ex-
cites the admiration of my friends; but
what my friends take for intelligence is
really stupidity at bottom,

In the autumn the dog Dick accompa-
nies me along the beaches to a fine salt
marsh through which a river twists to the
sea; and in the marsh we find occasional
winter yellowlegs and beetlehead plover-
two excellent varieties of birds to blanket
with bacon and bake for five minutes in a
hot oven. Too often these birds, when
shot, drop in the river and go whirling
down toward the breakers at its mouth.
The dog Dick, being, as I have intimated,
somewhat slow on the uptake, seldom sees
the birds fall into the river, and merely
dances with excitement at my feet at the
report of the gun. Consequently I pick up
a small stone and toss it toward the floating

(Continued on Page 104)

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

DRILL that WEATHERED the STORM

‘Ot started its travels in 1921-— was wreched —
salvaged ~and is still rendering valuable service

Part of its original tool equipment was a Black & Decker Half-Inch
Portable Electric Drill.
For two years the “Kennecott” sailed the seas, ranging from Japan and
Alaska to the Atlantic Seaboard. On October 8, 1923, she was wrecked
on the British Columbia coast, and the painting reproduced above is taken
from an actual photograph showing her lying on the rocks off Graham
Island with the breaking seas hurling their spray higher than her mastheads.

()i March 16, 1921, the motor ship “Kennecott” slid down the ways.

The sequel is told in a letter which we recently received from Walter

Longwill, Sanitary and Heating Engineer, of Prince Rupert, B. C.
“The machine I am using is a Black & Decker %-inch, F. G. type,
110 volts, ahd was salvaged off the U. S$. motor ship “Kennecott”,
which ran on the rocks in a storm at Queen Charlotte Islands on the
British Columbia coast. The ship had a cargo of copper ore from
Alaska and was a total wreck. Fishermen salvaged some material
from the wreck, among which was this Black & Decker Electric Drill.
The customs authorities took charge of the material, and a sale was
held at which the drill was knocked down to us.

It had been taken to an electrician before the sale and found in good
shape. I have found that it comes in very handy and effects a con-
siderable saving in both human energy and time.”

BLACKSDECKER

Four-and-a-half Years of Service and Still Going Strong

This is not unusual for a Black & Decker Drill, although its submersion
in salt water before being salvaged, which did not impair its usefulness,
is an unusually severe test.

Black & Decker Portable Electric Drills, Electric Screw Drivers, Electric Socket Wrenches,
Electric Tappers and Electric Grinders are sold by the leading Mill Supply, Machinery
Plumbing, Sheet Metal, Automotive and Electrical Supply Houses
YOU CAN BUY THEM ANYWHERE

“Tre BLACK & DECKER MFG.CO.

TOWSON, MD., U.S.A.
Canadian Factory: Lyman Tube Bidg., Montreal, P. Q.
BRANCH OFFICES WITH SERVICE STATIONS IN
SAN FRANCISCO ATLANTA DETROIT
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Portable
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‘With the Pistol Grip and Trigger Switch” __ >

104

ay

‘i WA

The Grenadier Guards
coarse and
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When
then
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weuldn's
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whe have wrved +em-
iosce P

ee England come Ben Wade
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From the firet day on they are sweet,
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mellew, Breaking-in an

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The Ben Wade inside

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varnish, the stain,
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bow! is unstained

is pumiced and polished by the Ben

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catalog of all shapes in actual sizes.

Since al UN Eng

This sign idenzifies ali Hargraft dealers

ee BY HARGRAFT | nied
ee 8

THE SATURDAY

(Continued from Page 102)

. The dog Dick, having a consuming

| passion for pursuing sticks, ‘stones, golf balls,

| tennis balls and other throwable objects, at
once hurls himself into the river after the
stone and paddles eagerly toward the spot
where it landed. The floating bird catches
his eye, and he at once realizes that he has
found the stone that I threw, although it
has changed slightly in color, size and odor.
He consequently seizes it and bears it
triumphantly back to me, little wotting,
poor wretch, that he is being grossly de-

| ceived.

| The dogs of literature, I am sure, would
know that stones sink in water, and would
refuse to be misled in such a painfully
obvious manner.

During the summer months I live close
| to the edge of the golf links—so close in
| fact that the earnest players hook their

second shots into the long grass beneath my
workroom windows and then stand there
while I am trying to earn my living, and
curse and slash at the grass with their mash-
ies and tell one another that they shot a 93
yesterday but that you’d never know it
from the way they’re hitting em today.

It therefore occurred to me that I could
make the wonder-beautiful dog Dick earn
his keep by instilling in him an appetite
for pursuing and unearthing the golf balls
that were lost among the whins and bracken
and shrubbery of my small estate.

This I was successful in doing, but un-

| fortunately I was unable to curb his appe-
| tite at the proper point. The dog Dick will
| not only dig golf balls from the bushes but

he will—if allowed to run loose—dash out
on the goif links in front of a golfer who is
mildly turning over in his mind the prob-
lem of whether to use a mid-iron or a spoon
on his next shot, and scoop up his ball in
his mouth without hesitating in his flight.

A Chicken Fancier

No golfer has yet been able to catch the
dog Dick during one of these raids; but I
greatly fear that if one ever does so he will
beat him to a pulp with the heaviest niblick
in his bag. It would not be so bad—from
my point of view-~if the dog Dick would
return to me with these stolen golf balls
unblemished; but unfortunately his pas-
sion for them is so great that he retires to
a sequestered corner and chews off their
covers.

The first dog of my early boyhood, the
water spaniel Dick, had a few traits that
to draw it mildly—struck the older resi-
dents of the community as being unfor-
tunate in the extreme. He could not, I
remember, resist the lure of a chicken in

EVENING POST

flight; and when I entered a farmer’s or-
chard to test the quality of his fruit, which
I frequently did uninvited, the original
Dick would climb over or under the fence
with me and devote his attention to the
chickens. If he had a good day, and the
farmer didn’t interrupt him, he could kill
as many as twenty chickens in ten minutes.

He was also of great assistance to me in
the sport of pig riding, which was very pop-
ular with me at one period. I would enter
a pigpen, I remember, and mount the
largest pig in sight, after which Dick
would clamber between the fence rails and
nip the pig’s heels, causing him to race
around the pen in true circus style. At the
end of an hour or two of rare sport we
would go home, and I would hide my shoes
behind the couch, and the dog would be
blamed for it and barred from the house
for several days.

It is my recollection that every catas-
trophe that occurred in my community
during my youth—every early frost and
every drowning accident and every large
robbery and every broken window and
every unpleasant natural phenomenon, like
a destructive thunderstorm—was blamed
on me and my dog Dick. It was freely pre-
dicted, I believe, that I would be hanged;
and there are still an uncomfortably large
number of cld residents of the town in
which I live who are hopeful that their
worst fears for me will be fulfilled. This
feeling is not ameliorated to any noticeable
extent by the stupidities of the wonder-dog
Dick.

The dogs of literature, on the other hand,
are always so free from gaucheries and
from offensive traits that everyone has a
kind word for them; and they could easily
be elected mayor if it were fashionable to
elect dogs to office. They never run away
from home, and they never get mud on
clean bedspreads, and they always recog-
nize a bad man at the very first smell. My
dogs, however, spend hours in investigat-
ing alien garbage pails; and on rainy days,
when a deep and unnatural silence has
settled over the house, we have always
known that we would find the dog of the
moment asleep on the cleanest counterpane
in the house.

As for this business of detecting crimi-
nals, my dogs have always dozed quietly
and calmly on the porch when bootleggers
and second-story men and murderers passed
by the door; but at the approach of our
dearest and most loyal friends they would
invariably leap to their feet with howls and
growls and roars of rage, and occasionally
sink a tooth in the ankle of an amiable
neighbor that we were particularly anxious
not to antagonize,

October 17,1925

The distinguished novelist and play-
wright who lives near me states that dogs
shouldn’t be too intelligent. It is his belief
that a too intelligent dog causes difficult
complications; and he instances the case
of the dog of mixed lineage that was picked
up in the Gas House District and adopted
by some friends of his.

On the first occasion when the gas-house
dog investigated the land in the vicinity of
his owners by adoption, he encountered a
bull terrier that took a violent dislike to
him. The bull terrier, with many a vile
oath, assaulted and battered the gas-house
dog with such venom that he seemed dead.

After the bull terrier had swaggered off
home, however, the gas-house dog weakly
opened one eye and moved a leg a little.
Eventually he crawled back to his adopted
owners, who nursed him back to health.

The Gas:House Dog's Revenge

After his recovery they were mystified to
see that he was saving bones. No matter
how hungry he might be, he carefully bore
each bone that was given him to a recess
beneath the garage. Finally, just after de-
positing a bone under the garage one sunny
afternoon, he set off at a gallop toward his
former gas-house haunts.

An hour later he returned, followed by
one of the most motley assemblages of dogs
ever seen together. The puzzled owners of
the gas-house dog counted the motley ar-
ray and saw that there were twenty-eight
of them.

The gas-house dog took them out to the
garage and let them sniff around for a
while; and he then led them off toward the
home of the bull terrier that had assaulted
and battered him. A short time later the
bull terrier saw the gas-house dog saunter-
ing toward him alone. Instantly the bull
terrier’s rancor burst into full flower again.
He leaped at the gas-house dog with jaws
wide open, and at that moment twenty-
eight other dogs popped out from behind
houses and trees and hedges and simul-
taneously fell on him. Three minutes later
a little piece of the bull terrier was hanging
to the lip of each of the twenty-eight dogs.
The gas-house dog immediately led the
twenty-eight back to his garage and
brought out the benes he had saved. There
were exactly twenty-eight of them.

Such intelligence is the intelligence of the
dogs of literature. I am rather ashamed to
admit it, but a short time ago I acquired a
wife for the dog Dick. In case an infuriated
golfer ever gets at him with a niblick during
one of his golf-ball holdups, I want to be
able to get another just like him. I’m
afraid I like them stupid.

PROTO, BY LELAND J. BURAUD

Lake Arrowhead, California

TS ve

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

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A“ GENERAL ELECTRIC

for no more than the cost of a candle or an oil lamp wick.

Electric light is the cheapest light the world has ever had.
Use it freely—when you want it, where you want it. Just
remember that the best and cheapest lamps to burn are
MaAzpa* Lamps.

When light was really expensive, Uncle
Phineas never went to bed withouta pistol
under the pillow and a lighted lamp at
the head of the stairs.

Buy your lamps where you see the sign shown at the left
of the picture. It is the emblem of the Edison MAzpA Lamp
Agent. He knows the right size for every socket.

\ J ) ~
; j &

A burning light is still a great protec-
tion and you can burn a hall or cellar light
every night—all night long—for a week

* Mazpa—the mark of a research service

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Linings for men’s suits and top-
coats. Linings for women’s coats,
suits and furs. Dress Satins,
Millinery Satins, Shoe Satins.

SKINNER & SONS

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

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HOSE who think all silks are alike have never had a garment
lined with Skinner’s Satin.
There are many grades of raw silk. Skinner uses but one grade
-the finest. There are destructive dyes which give inferior silks
weight and gloss to deceive the purchaser, at the expense of wear-
ing quality. They have no place in Skinner manufacture.
Vearing quality is the Skinner aim—and has been for 77 years.

In ready-to-wear garments, look for the Skinner label. In ordering from a tailor,

“LOOK FOR THE NAME IN THE SELVAGE”

— NEW YORK, CHICAGO, BOSTON, PHILADELPHIA — MILLS,

October 17,1925

Estab. 1848

HOLYOKE,

MASS.

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

ME AND BEANY WRITE A BOOK OF POIMS

this is the deakon. and this is Evelyn
and this is Ben. she calis him Benny.

(Continued from Page 42

tin meens here the deakons mony and not
the tin lanterns and candelsticks whitch

i drawed the pictures a little better look-
ing than they was so they woodent get
mad. father 1 day sed to old Evelyn that if
she marrid old deakon it wood be spring
malingering in the lapp of winter. she
gigled and put her head to one side and sed
o dear mister Shute you are quite galant
aint you. and this is the poim. it is a dire-
log poim. first old deakon speeks and then
Evelyn.

the deakon speeks

o Evelyn your never in

when i come out to call

i go your way 5 times a day

and dont see you at all

old Miss Evelyn ansers

a man thats meen and seldum cleen
and older than a mummy

aint got no rite to come and lite
on me or mine i vummy.

{(P. S. i vum is the strongest othe a
woman can use. women only use it when
they are very mutch put upon. men speek
verry diferent some times but women
dont have mutch injoymert in this life and
cant say jest what they want to.]

the deakon puts in his oar again

i wunder why a girl thet t

admire more than enny

one that i know shood always show
parshality for Benny

old Miss Evelyn ansers his question

when winter comes along to throw

his ritches in the lapp of spring

she shrinks away from him you know
like enny little girlish thing

the old deakon yips one moar yip

to mate the iggle with the dove

is sumthing nature will not do
xcept when human beings love
like me and you

old Evelyn gets in one moar rap

if you as iggle i as dove

shood wed, as sure as you was born
when out the winder had flew love

i know i shood be clawn.

the deakon has the last say whitch aint
usuel in sutch cases

all rite for you my Evelyn

the time is past for dancing gigs
and if you do not like my tin
ill go back to my swill and pigs

me and Pewt and Beany used to get when
we was driving his swill cart.

this is the last i have herd about old
deakon and old Evelyn. there is probably
moar to come but not in time for my book
of poims. peraps i shall have to wright an-
other book if Beany holds out. but it aint
safe to reckon on Beany. at present Beany
is ahead. if ennything shood hapen before
my book is printed i will put in a P.S.
xplaining all.
Wednesday August 17, 186-- if this was
school time there woodent be enny school
this afternoon. so i gess this afternoon i
will not wirk enny and will have a rest. as
it is a hot day i gess me and Pewt and
Beany will go up river to the gravil and tip
the boat over and have sum fun diving cff
of it. a feller has got to be cairful and not
have a apologetic shock like sum literary
men have. they wirk hard for a long time
and then sum day they falls prostrate on
the ground and fomes at the mouth and
when they has fully recovered they find
they cant use there rite arm and there rite
hine leg. peraps it is their left arm and
their left hine leg. i am not sure whitch.
but eether is bad enuf not to be able to use.

sumtimes they talks as if they dident
have enny palet or had sum red-hot hasty
puding in there mouth. so you bet i aint
going to have that hapen to me if going
fishing and in swiming will save me. of
coarse i havent wirked mutch afternoons
ennyway becaus i had to taik cair of my
helth, but i always felt as if i was waisting
time and sumtimes in the hiest dive or the
longest swim under water the thougt wood
come to me that i shood be wirking on my
book of poims. and sumtimes the awful
thougt wood come to me what if i never
come up who will finish my book of poims.

once jest as i was diving that awful
thougt come and scart me so that i come
down on the water flat and maid a awful
guttser and neerly drove the breth of life
from my boddy. how ennyone can laff at a
feller when that happens to him i cant
understand, but Beany and Pewt and all
the other fellers whitch was in swimming
all laffed as if they wood die while all i cood
do was to try to draw my breth with awful
noises and maiking feerful faces.

so today i felt as if i had a rite to stop
wirking and to have a good time as it wood
have been a haff holiday if it was school
time.

well we wood have had a good time if it
hadent been for Beany who plaid the meen-
ist trick on us that i have ever gnew. me
and Beany rew the boat up to the gravil
and Pewt was there waiting for us and we

went on shore and undrest and then we
pushed the boat out into deep water and
tride to tip it over. Pewt got on one side
and me and Beany on the other and we
rocked the boat as hard as we cood. bimeby
it went over on our side. i see it coming and
div under water and got away and i sup-
osed Beany done the same but when i come
up Pewt was all rite but there wasent no

Beany to be seen. we waited jest a few sec- |

onds to see if Beany wood come up and he
dident. then Pewt sed gosh i bet the boat
hit him a tunker on the head and stunted
him and he is under it drownding. well
then we tried to tip the boat back and to
rescu Beany and save his life before the
vital spark had fledd. but the moar we
straned and tride the moar that old boat
woodent tip back. well it is a awful thougt
to think that Beany was down under that
boat gogling and spitting out bubbles and
growing black in the face and thinking of
all the awful things he had did in his long
life of crime like fellers whitch is drownding
always does.

and the moar we thougt of that the moar |

we straned and yanked and pulled at that |

boat and coodent tip it over hardly 1 bit.
then we hollered for help and then we both
begun to cry. we was scart most to deth.
i never see Pewt cry befoar xcept one day
he picted up a gray squirril he had caught
in a box trap and coodent put him down.
well all of a suddin i thougt i wood dive for

Beany’s ded boddy and peraps if i caugt |

him we mite save his life. so i drawed a
long breth and div under the boat with my
eys open and what do you think. the ferst
thing i see was Beanys hine legs in the

water looking yellow like a chicking and |

when i come up under the boat there was
Beany with his hed above water under the
boat holding on to a seet and gigling his
hed most off to hear us hollering for help
and straining our backboans off trying to
tip the boat over and rescu him from a
watery graive. and that was the meenist
part of it. when we wood try to tip it one
way he wood hang down on the other side.
i thougt that boat was terible heavy. well
when Beany see me he begun to laff and i
was so mad that if i hadent been so tuck-

ered out with trying to lift that boat and |

diving under it i wood have gave Beany a
bang in the snoot but i told him he was the
meenist cuss i ever see. bimeby he wis-
pered to me so Pewt woodent hear to stay
under the boat and Pewt wood think i was
drownded two.

well it was meen to do it but Pewt had

did so menny things to me that was meen |

and as i was so tuckered and it was kind of

nice under the boat and not so dark as you |

wood think i done it. i kept quiet and then
Pewt begun to holler Plupy are you under
there, Plupy are you drownded.
hollered for help and we herd him go swim-
ing away as fast as he cood and then slosh-
ing up the bank hollering help as loud as

he cood. he hollered help help Plupy Shute |
and Beany Watson is drownded under a |

boat help help. Plupy Shute and Beany
Watson is drownded under a boat. help.
help. well we div down and come up from
under the boat and we cood see Pewt with
jest his britches on and holding them up
with one hand and shinning over fenses
and running over Gilmans field to where
there was a lot of men about a mile away
wirking in a hay field. well we pushed the

then he |

Church

boat in to where it was only about a foot |
deep and tipped it over and got most of the |

water out and then we dressed as quick as
we cood,

then we crawled up the bank and peeked
over and we cood see the men coming on
the run and hollering and Pewt coming all
way behind them most tuckered out. sum
of the men had unhiched the horses and
had got on their backs and was coming as
fast as the horses cood galop. well when we
see that we run down the bank and gumped
into the boat and rew across the river as

(Continued on Page 109)

107

“Now I am proud
to entertain
important guests”

mis was the remark of a woman whose
Tirusband was rapidly forging alead in
business. i
tances to entertain.

There were important acquain
One of the things
she found they could casily do to
make their house more in keeping with
their rising position in iife, was co replace
the old dark-colored closet seat with a
handsome, modern Church Sani-White
Toilet Seat.

A room to be proud of

Tue improvement that a spoticssly clean,
all-white toilet seat can make in the appear-
ance of a bathroom is certainly surprising
There is nothing you cai do to equal it at
so little cost. And it adds a certain refine
ment which people, whe care about such
things, insist upon having. It makes the
bathroom the sort of room you can be proad
to have guests use

The Church Toilet Seat is not only clean
but it always /ooks clean, and it will stay
permanently white-—a sanitary seat that
you can wash as thoroughly ani easily as
you wash porcelain,

Will last years

Irs white surface is neither varnish, paint
nor enamel, but a strong, durable sheathing
of a substance as handsome as ivory, that
will not crack, splinter, chip off, wear off,
blister or stain,

You can install ic yourself on any toilet
in a few minutes, And it can be taken off
just as casily and carried to another
house or apartment if you move or build
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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

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October 17,1925

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—
SS ed
~~

(Continued from Page 107)

quick as we cood and then we threw out a
big rock hiched to a roap whitch we use as
a anker and grabed our fishing poles and
threw in our lines and wated.

we cood hear the men hollering and com-
ing nearer and the horses harniss gingling
and in a minite they come taring up with
raiks and long pichforks and roaps and
things. the men on horseback gumped off
and they all come down the bank and when
they see us they hollered where did them
fellers go down. then we sed what fellers
and they sed the fellers that are drownded
and we sed we aint seen enny fellers whitch
is drownded and they sed he sed they went
down under the boat and we sed they aint
enny fellers under this boat and they sed
was there a boat floting round when you
got here and we sed no this is the only boat
that we have saw. and they sed how long
have you fellers been here and we sed a
hour or moar and they looked to one an-
other and finally one man sed well sum-
body has made dam fools of us and another
feller sed that little cuss is the damdist
little lier i ever gnew. i cood have swoar he
was scart to deth and another feller sed it
does beet hell how the boys of this day can
lie it wasent so when i was young and an-
other sed where is that meesly little cuss
and jest then Pewt come running up breth-
ing hard and with nothing on but his
britches.

well the minit he see us in the boat fish-
ing his eys stuck out like a snapping bugs
but befoar he cood say ennything 2 men
grabed him 1 by the ear and 1 by the hair
and they led him down to the bank and one
man sed now you cussed lier befoar i ty a
rock to your neck and drownd you like a
cat tell us why you plaid so meesly a trick
on us and Pewt begun to cross his throte
and hope to die and say we come up with
him to go in swiming and fishing and we all
went in and tiped over the boat and Beany
went under the boat and i div under to
rescu him and neether of us come up and he
run for help and the 2 men eech give him
2 or 3 bats eech and a shaik or 2 and then
another man sed what maiks me madder
than ennything is to hear a boy tell sutch a
dam fool lie as that and they sed what
shall we do with him fellers

mad with us. i dont know jest whe: we can
do. iset tipe today. Beany showed me how

he had set it and when i looked at it i cood- |
ent maik hed or tale to it. it was all rong |

side two so i poared it all out in the box.
there was a lot of it. then i went to wirk to
set the tipe. i put it in head first as it had
aught to go. then when i had got a lot of it
set i fassened it tite and rubbed sum ink on
it and run a roller over it and all i got was a
black smeer,

i had the tipe in head first or tale ferst i
have forgot whitch. then i tride again and
got them rong side up. that wasent so bad
because if a feller had a book whitch was
printed rong side up he cood tirn the book
rong side down and it wood be all rite. but
if the printing was rong the way Beany had
it afeller wood have to hold the book up in
front of the looking glass to read it. well
while i was thinking sutch thoughts Beany
come in and when he saw what i had
printed he neerly laffed his head off.

well when he found i had poared out the
tipe he had set rong he stoped laffing and
was the maddest feller i ever saw. he kicked
round the room and sed i was the biggest
lunkhead he ever see, he sed i dident have
as mutch branes as a munky rench. well
we dident have a fite because we was pard-

ners and pardners hadent aught to fite. soi |
swalowed his wirds bitter thoug they was |

and told him i done the best i cood. well
when Beany see i felt bad for what i had
did he sed he was rong to say i dident have
as mutch branes as a munky rench so he
wood taik off the wird rench and let it go at
that.

so rather than have a row with Beany
and not get my book of poims printed i
sed all rite i woodent interfear with Beany
xcept when he tride to correct my speling
or grammer whitch i gnew mutch moar
about than Beany and xcept when he tride
to chainge a wird whitch was neccesary to
maik a rime, so Beany agreed. i gess it will
be enuf for me to rite the poims without
trying to print them. a feller cant do evry-
thing and keep well.

i rote a poim about Pewt today. it sirves
him rite for being fool enuf to get mad for
nothing but a little fun. i also drawed his
picture. this is Pewt.

and one feller sed less not
drownd him because some day
he will be hanged and another /
feller sed less maik him run the 4
gantlet. so they stood in line
and made Pewt taik off his
britches and then they all got
a swich eech and they made
him run by them and when he
went fluking by eech feller hit
him a old he one with his swich
and evry time he got hit he let
out a awful yell. gosh you had
aught to have saw Pewt hiper
and herd him yell.

well then the men all went
back to wirk and told Pewt that
if he ever plaid sutch a meen
trick as that again they wood
drownd him like a rat.

well after they had went we

told Pewt to dress and we wood

row him up river and what do you think
he sed. he sed he wished me and Beany
was at the bottom of the river. he sed we
mite drownd as ded as Golier for all he
cared and he never wood speek to us again
as long as he lived. and he put on his close
and went down towerds the bridge. he sed
he wood get even with us if it took the rest
of his life. now who ever herd of a feller
getting so mad as that for a goke. i shood
be ashaimed to show so mutch temper for
a thing like that. but then Pewt is difer-
ent from most fellers. i am glad i am not
like Pewt.

Thursday August 18, 186— it has raned all
day and is kind of cold. so this morning i
went over to Beanys to see how he has got
along on my poims. old Smith Hall and
Clark whitch print the Exeter News Letter
have got sum newspaper paper that is jest
rite to print poims on but Pewt is the only
feller whitch has got enny chink and he is

and this is the poim.

a woful loss our town sustaned

when Plupe and Beany drownded

by going down beneath a boat

which they and Pewt had grounded

in 20 feet of water cleer

and well known as the gravil

where folks whitch cannot row and steer
had never augt to travil,

the sun was brite the sky was blew
when they set out together

lo row and swim and dive anew
regardless of the wether

[P.S. dive anew meens that they had diven
before a grate menny times. it dont meen
that it was a new kind of dive as sum mite
think.}

they hiched the boat unto a staik
and hid behine a tree

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

1
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110

and off they every rag did laik
here nobody cood see

they always had io taik grate cair

lest sum woman er her daughter

shood come by jest when they was there
and see whail they hadent augt ter

|P.S. this shood have been aught to but it
woodent rime so good. poits can do this
when they has got to. like this time.]

as nobody was coming by

they quinped into the river

not thinking they was going to die
and set the lown a quiver

|P. S. quiver meens that peeple in the town
wood be terible xcited and ring their hands
and get poles with hooks on them and drag
the river.|

they tipped the dory rong side up
to maik @ bully dive
but when old Beanw aint come up
they sed he aint alive

then Plupy whitch was very brave
div deeply like a piummetl
lo drag poer Reany from the wave
and nol to let him come il

he found old Beany with his hed
above the waters level

and surely verry far from ded
and laffing like the deevii

anil so them two aa truth ia true
remaned beneath the dory

whtle Pewter acart and cold and blue
rushed off to spred ihe story

iP. S. dory is another name for a boat and
is not a girls name as sum mite think. it
wood be verry unproper to have a girls
name apear in a story of this kind when
fellers is in swimming.|

Pewt run throug brambles slumps and trees
not heeding cula and tiches

divested of his uniform

save one old pair of britches

he hollered ao that 20 men

and six or seven others

come rushing up with poles jest then
to seve poor Pewters brothers

{P, 8. calling me and Beany brothers of
Pewt is a figger of speach whitch dont mean
nothing. poita can do this and ministers
ami peeple whitch belongs to chirches and
missionaries. |

and when they found that both of us
waa sitling their a fitching

they called him a most wuthless cuss
whitch needed « good switching

iP. S, fitching meens fishing. a poit can

change a wird so it will rime.|

and while they held him by the ear
they talked if they shood drownd him
jeat like a rat or with a bat

jest gnock him down and pound him

but finally they licked him good
for moat almily lying

and let him go jest as they shood
G howling ioud and erying

now Pewt is mad aa mad can be
with me and Beany for it

but why he ehood be mad with me
i have not really saw il

i really think that he'd be glad
to think we'd left our trubles
and lying on the rivers bed

a blowing aff our bubbles.

there i think i have rote enuf to maik a
pretty good book, i wood rite moar but i
have got to consider Beany. i have also got
to taik care of my helth. so i have been to
vil the band concirts of the Exeter Cornet
Band and evry practise nite i set on the
steps and lissen.

after i liave sold all my books of poims i
think i will invent some new peace for the
band to play. {i can wissle evry tune
they play and when a feller can do that
whitch dont belong to the band it is a sure
sign that they gneed.sum new music. i have
been thinking of wrighting the Beany
quickstep and tie Pewt andanty and walce.

THE SATURDAY

but ferst i have got to get my book of
poims printed and sold. it is almost reddy.

Pewt is kind of hanging round. i gess he
wants to maik up with me and Beany but
if he does he has got to speek ferst. boath
me and Beany has maid up our mind to
that. we wood like to have Pewt keep mad
untill after we have sold my book and got
my money. we feal that if Pewt maiks up
with us befoar that time he will manage
sum how to get sum of that mony. so if we
can keep him mad a few days longer we will
be all rite.
Friday August 19, 186— this morning Cele
wirked at sewing together the sheets of
paper that Beany has printed and the pic-
tures i have drew. she sed she dident think
i was verry respectable to sum peeple but
she sed my rimes was all rite and it wasent
sing song like sum poitry but she sed she
gessed it wood sell only she dident think
she wood have rote sum of them poims jest
like i did.

ennyway we have got them all sewed up
and en the cover whitch is maid of white
paper is these wirds.

Poims of Peeple and Things in Exeter and
Pictures of the Saim.

Poims rote and pictures drew

by Harry Shute poit and arttist. -

printed by Elbrige Watson

gob printer.

tomorrow we are going to sell them.
they are $.15 cents apeace. 25 copies at
$.15 cents apeace maiks $3. dollers and $.75
cents. we are going to give Cele $.50 cents
for sewing them and then devide $3. dollers
and $.25 cents even. that will give me and
Beany $1. doller and $.6244 cents a peace
whitch is better than nothing but pretty
small compaird with what we xpected to
get from the elwife bizziness and the boan
bizziness and considering the terible strane
i have been under it dont seam mutch.

ennyway there can’t be enny trubble
about this for evry wird i have rote is true
and as father sed truth is mity and will pre-
vale. i think Beany charged two mutch for
what he done but then Beany is kind of a
grasping feller and if a feller dont look out
Beany will taik a hog bite. but the next
book i wright i shall maik a diferent arrange-
ment with Beany. we are both going to get
up erly and do our errands and other wirk
and then go down town and sell my books.
Cele has promised not to tell ennyone so
that when father comes home tonite from
Boston he will be sirprized and wont know
what to say. i am going to put a book on
his plait at the supper table and wach his
face when he reeds it. i bet he will be sir-
prized and pleesed. it only shows that fel-
lers whitch is willing to wirk his fingers to
the boan can atain sucess. i xpect from
this time on my life will be verry diferent.
Monday August 22, 186— 3 days has went
by sence i rote my last wirds. i shall never
wright a nother poim or print a book. if i
had gnocked down a old woman and stole
her falce teeth and her ear rings i coodent
have got into enny wirse trubble than i
have got into about that book of poims.
for 3 awful days i have not gnew until to-
nite wether i shood go to staits prizen for
life or to the reform school. everybody i
rote about has been to the house shaking
his fist and swaring. i dont beleeve there
was ever sutch a time befoar. father sed he
hadent saw sutch xcitement sence the rebels
fired on fort Sumter. father he laffs about
it now but it was 2 or 3 days befoar he saw
the fun of it.

that is what i dont understand how enny
peeple can read them poims and not like
them. but most enny feller and woman
whitch i rote a poim about wanted to kill
me. i gess they wood have if it hadent been
for father and General Marstin. father sed
that most always he cood straiten things
out himself like when we marked up the
grave stones but this was two mutch for
one man and Brad that is Pewts father and
Wats that is Beanys father hadent come to
the scrach and helped him out. he sed they
had not shew the sines of true frendship
that he had for them and whitch had augt

EVENING POST

to link them togather for weel or wo and so
he had to call in General Marstin and he
and General fixt it. he sed for a long time it
was knip and tuck.

well it is a long and verry xciting story.
saturday morning me and Beany got our
wirk done erly and went down town. the
ferst man we met was Horris Cobb and
Rashe Balnap. they was going in swiming
erly. we showed them the books and they
looked at them a minit and began to laff
and bougt 2. then they hollered to Frank
Hervey whitch was going dowr to his res-
terent and he bougt one and gave us 2
creem cakes eech. then we met the oner-
able Amus Tuck and Jug Stickney and
they bougt 2 and went off reeding them and
leening back and forrard and laffing fit to
kill themselfs. it dident taik enny time at
all to sell the books. we sold them as fast
as i cood rite the naims into a little acount
book. i am glad now i kept the acount for
if i hadent done it i dont gnow what wood
have happened to me and Beany. i gess we
wood be in stait prizen. we was near enuf
ennyway. i have never had so narrow a
squeek in my life.

well we sold all my books and we give
Cele $.50 cents and me and Beany devided
the rest of the mony whitch was moar than
we xpected for sum of the peeple whitch
bougt the books give us $.25 cents and
told us to keep the chainge. so we kept
the chainge and kept a book eech and had
moar mony than we xpected. "

well then me and Beany went up river
fishing and swiming. Pewt is still mad and
hasent went ennywhere with us yet. we
have been hoaping he wood keep mad untill
after we got our mony but now we miss
Pewt because he can think up so menny
things to do. Pewt was the feller whitch
invented putting carpit tacks in fellers
seets in school instid of pins. he also in-
vented putting a darning needle in the toe
of his boot and reeching his hine leg and
kicking a feller 2 seets front of him.. then
that feller wood let out a yell that you
cood hear 9 miles and old Francis wood
grab the feller whitch set behind the feller
whitch let out the yell and lick time out of
him in spite of all he cood say and Pewt
wood set there looking as if he hadent did
ennything rong in his life. then old Francis
after licking the feller wood maik him set
sumwhere elce and put sum other feller in
his place and then sumtime peraps that
afternoon Pewt wood do it again and get
the new feller a licking. so we miss Pewt
he is sutch a grate inventer.

well me and Beany staid all day plan-
ning what we shood do with our money and
swiming and fishing. when i got home i
found a lot of peeople there waiting for
father to get home. they was setting on the
steps and in the garden, under the trees
and on the steps of the barn and in the par-
lor. mother was wurried i cood see that and
when i come in they all started to talk and
gaw me and mother she sed you will eether
have to stop talking that way or leeve the
premices. when Mister Shute comes home
he will talk it over with you. and she told
me to go to my room and stay until she
called me and i was glad to do it. well
bimeby the hack drove up with father and
the minit he come in they all came at him
talking together men and women slapping
their hands together and them whitch had
umbrellers shaking them. well father told
them to come into the parlor and lissened
while they talked and thretened me with
stait prizen and jale and reform school and
licking. i tiptode from my room to the
front stairs and lissened. they sed that
they had let me off a good menny times on
account of the frendship for father and
mother but that this was the straw that
broak the zebras back and the law had got
to taik its coarse.

well after about an hour father he sed
well ladys and gentlemen befoar i deside
what is best to do i must reed the book and
think it over so if you will all come back
here at 8 oh clock i shall be reddy to talk it
over. well then they all went and father
and the rest had supper and Cele brought
me up mine. after supper father and

October 17,1925

mother and aunt Sarah went into the par-
lor and father read the book out loud and
mother and aunt Sarah had to laff two.
father wood say by godfry Sarah lissen to
this and then he wood read it and laff.
bimeby he sed well this is a bad scraipe
and i gess i will get General Marstin down.
so he went out and come back bimeby with
General and when General come in he began
to read the book and laff so you cood hear
him all over the street. bimeby when he
stoped mother sed General it is funny but i
am afraid it is not a laffing matter. and
General he sed it aint ennything elce Mrs.
Shute but how in thunder did these young
scamps think of doing sutch a thing and
then father sed by godfry General it was
my falt. the last scraipe he got into was
the swill cart scraipe and of coarse i cood-
ent lick him for that and i told him he must
stop doing sutch things and he asked me
what he cood do and i told him to wright poi-
try. but i dident supose he thougt i ment it.

bimeby the peeple begun to come and
then they shet the door and all i cood hear
was a lot of yapping. sum was trebble and
sum was base. then bimeby it wood all
stop but 1 voice whitch i gess was General
Marstins. bimeby father called me down.
when i went in i dident dass look ennyone
in the ey, they all looked as if they cood
bite a peace out of me.

well General Marstin asted me if i gnew
how menny books i sold and if i gnew the
men-to’Whitch i sold them. i sed yes and
shew him my acount book. he looked it
over and sed hum ho hum i gess we can fix
it all rite and then he sed well this is under-
stood is it. we are to get the books back
and birn them and promise not to do so
again and it will be all rite. and they sed if
that was the best we cood do it was all rite.
so i promised and he sed he wood do it and
he and father got a horse and buggy and
drove round that nite and got them all.
lots of people sed they woodent give them
back but when General told them if they
dident it wood get me into jale they give
them back and sed they had moar fun read-
ing them than they got at Comical Browns
show last winter. sum of them wanted their
mony back whitch father pade but most of
them dident.

when father come back with General
they birnt all the books jest as they sed
they wood do. then father he sed well Gen-
eral how mutch do i ow you and General he
sed not a dam cent George, the fun i have
had reading that book will maik me laff for
a year. ennyway i never charge for helping
boys out of scraips. you and i was boys
once ourselfs. but you had better put a
check rane and a curb bit on that boy of
yours or sum day you will be hunting bale
for him. but this time i think you were to
blaim for giving him bad advice. you told
him to wright poitry and he rote it. i wish
i cood have kept one of them books but i
promised to birn them all. but that was the
cussidiest book of poims i ever see and as for
the pictures they was lots better than enny
of old Boutelles dagerryotipes or tin tipes.

so the General went home and father sed
well Joey, he calls mother Joey you know,
well Joey this has been a pretty bizzy day.
i am glad tomorrow is sunday and we can
all sleep off the effeck of what i shood call a
literary bender. i wonder what them cussed
boys will beuptonext. idontlike to impose
upon my friends but ii this keeps up i shall
have to hire General Marstin by the year.

then he sed to me it is lucky for you that
i got you into this scraipe. if it hadent been
for that i wood have taken your hide off in
42 plaices. now you start to bed and i
started lifely. as i went up stairs i herd
father say thank the good lord from whitch
all blesings flow that them books is all dis-
troyed. i shoodent sleap nites if i thougt
there was one left to tell the tale.

i wonder what father wood say if he
gnew there was jest one left. i have got one
hid. but nobody will ever see it but me.

this is the end for tomorrow school be-
gins again. welli have had a very interest-
ing summer after all.

Editor's Note—This is the seventh and last of a
series of sketches by Mr. Shute.

fo
|
}

ys

——

D |

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST October 17, 1925

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

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October 17,1923

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)
|

the few heaves he did unloose toward
first were about as accurate as shots fired
by a blindfolded woman with the palsy.
Seven of the eight runs made by the post
nine were with the compliments of Stupe,
while his contribution to the four markers
we pushed across the pan was a young nix

“You going to play that kind of ball the
rest of the trip?”’ I asks after the game.

“Clever, wasn’t it?” grins Gilligan.

“Clever?” I repeats.

“Sure!”’ he comes back. “You don’t
think I was playing my best, do you?”’

“Weren't you trying?” I asks.

“Of course not,’’ returns Stupe.
is a good-will trip, isn’t it?”

“What about it?’’ I snaps.

“*How you going to spread salve around,”*
says Gilligan, “ by trimming folks in foreign
countries?”

“Don’t you know these islands belong
to us?” I queries.

“Do they?” exclaims Stupe, surprised.
“‘Are they part of the Philippines?”

“They're in the same ocean, aren’t
they?’’ I barks. ‘‘ Now listen here,”’ I goes
on. “This may be a good-will tour like you
says, but you’re no salve salesman from
Schenectady or ointment peddler from
Piqua. Your business is to play the best
game that’s in you and behave yourself on
and off the ball grounds. Get me, or shall
I repeat it in words of less than one syl-
lable?”

Gilligan mumbles something about the
boss’ ideas, but I leaves him before he gets
very far.

“Tripe is tripe,’’ says Hartnett, when I
tells him about the talk with Stupe, ‘“‘and
you can’t lecture it into fillet of sole. The
chief made the fatal mistake of dropping a
few cracks in front of Gilligan about carry-
ing good will abroad and ever since the trip
started he’s been trying to tell the other
boys how to act in foreign countries.”

“You didn’t tell me anything about this
before,”’ I remarks.

“No,” admits Dave. ‘“‘The condition
you were in, I didn’t think you could even
hold information. If I were you I'd ship
Stupe back to the States. He's going to
bean somebody with these good-will heaves
of his before we get far and get the whole
gang of us in Dutch.”

Two days later we leaves Hawaii and
heads for New Zealand and Australia. For
a while Gilligan’s under cover and I got
nothing to complain about. About a week
or so out Stupe passes by me and Hartnett,
lugging a camera.

“What you
“Fish?”

“The equator,”’ returns Gilligan. “‘ We’re
going to pass it in about ten minutes. I
want to get all set.”’

“You want to be careful,”’ advises Hart-
nett, “or you'll get a couple of meridians in
the picture. They’re hard to tell apart.”

“Not for me, they won’t be,” brags
Stupe, and goes on deck.

“Come on,”’ says Dave, after a bit, “let’s
go up and see what luck he’s having.”

When we arrives Gilligan’s having an
argument with an Englishman and [ lis-
tens in.

“Tf it was there I could see it, couldn’t
1?" growls Stupe. ‘“‘What do you think I
got—umpire eyes?”

“But,” protests the Britisher, “it’s an
imaginary line, you know.”

“So’s your grandmother!” snaps Gilli-
gan. “If it was imaginary, it wouldn’t bea
line; and if it wasn’t a line, it wouldn’t be
there. Cackle that off!”

“What did you think the equator was?”’
I asks Stupe, when the other lad drifts
away. “A brick wall with tire signs on it?”

“T was only joking with him,’ returns
Gilligan. “It makes foreigners kind of feel
good-willish when you joke with ’em.”

“You must never tell an Englishman a
joke on Saturday,”’ I cautions him. “It
makes him laugh in church, Did you take

9”

any pictures?

“This

shooting?” asks Dave.

(Continued from Page 25)

“Yes,’’ returns Stupe, “and when I get
‘em developed I'll make a bum out of a lot
of schoolbooks, I’ll bet there’s a line there,
at that.”

However, the equator stuff was nothing
compared to what Gilligan pulls at the
hundred and eightieth meridian. That's
the place where you drops a whole day out
of the week to catch up with sun time. A
baby goes to bed Monday night, perfectly
sober, reels off eight hours of snores and
wakes up Wednesday morning. Hartnett’s
explaining the whys and whereases to me
and some of the other boys when Stupe
and his flat-wheel friend Tracy come along.

“You mean to say this is Wednesday?”’
asks Gilligan.

“Yes,”’ answers Dave.

“It may be for you,”’ comes back Stupe,
“but not for me. Nobody's going to swipe
a day out of my young life. Hey, Hank?”’

“They’re only kidding,”’ says Tracy.
“Tf this isn’t Tuesday, where is it? Where
has it gone?”’

“The same place,” answers Hartnett,
“where your lap goes when you stand up.”

“Yeh,” jeers Gilligan, “but I can get my
lap back by sitting down again.”

“You'll get this day back when you re-
turn,”” Hartnett promises him. ‘‘There’ll
be a pair of Tuesdays.”

“You fellows can do what you darn
please,’’ growls Stupe, “ but nobody’s going
to make a sucker out of me. I’m willing to
go as far as the next guy in soft-soaping
these foreigners, but I draw the line when

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

STARRING STUPE

it comes to shooting a day out of the week;
and it’s no imaginary line either.
lunch date with a gal on Deck B for today
and nobody’s going to make me think
today’s gone and this is tomorrow. I got
a date with another chick for Wednesday.
That'd leave me in a fine fix, wouldn’t it?”

“T suppose,”” remarks Dave, “that you
and Tracy are going to wear your heavy
overcoats down in Australia,”

“Isn't it cold in winter there?” inquires
Hank.

“Sure it is,” returns Hartnett; “but it’s
summer in Australia now.”
“Gosh!”’ gasps Tracy.

ing whole seasons!"

“Not with me, they’re not,”’ barks Gilli-
gan. ‘It’s cold in America and it’s going
to be cold for me in Australia.
limits to good will.”’

“They're swip-

iv

E PUT on nothing but exhibition

games for the Anzacs, so there’s no
reason for Stupe playing rotten ball except
the natural one. For a week or so I have no
trouble with him. His tongue perspires as
freely as ever, but I'm able to snap his trap
shut before he pulls any international com-
plications; and by the time we head for the
Orient I’m beginning to feel a little easier

about that garrulous millstone. Dave's
still nervous though.
“Send him home, Jim,” he advises.

“He's giving the whole layout of us the
social standing of horse thieves and the in-
tellectual rating of deaf-mute Digger In-
dians.”’

“‘He’s harmless,” I insists.

“Maybe,” says Hartnett; “but I still
have a hunch that he'll pull the whole tent
down over our heads before we get that
Tuesday back.”

In Japan we’re due for a series of games
with a university nine and the boys are on
their toes for a real scrimmage. And “real”
is right. The day before we're to play I
watch two Tokio teams work and they put
up a brand of ball that’s not to be sniffed
at even by big leaguers. There’s a real pay
crowd out for the tussle between us and the
college boys, and they give us what goes in
Japan for a large hand.

“Now you play real ball,”’ I cautions
Gilligan.

“All right,” he comes back; “but the
boss was particular about spreading good
will around here.”’

“T’ll look after that,” I yelps. ‘ You pull
any fumbles out in the field and you'll be
spreading good-bys from the back end of a
cattle boat bound for home.”

The game develops into a snappy, close
affair. Jameson, in the box for us, puts
everything he has on the ball; but his
everything’s not enough to keep it away
from the brown boys’ busy bats. They hit to
all corners of the field, and besides are chain
lightning on the bases. By the end of the
third inning they’ve got a four-run lead on
us. In the fourth session, however, Tracy
bangs one out with the bags full and the
score’s love all, Stupe comes up in the fifth
with a man on second and third and two
down. The other times up he'd popped to
right field and flown out to third.

“Slap it out!’’ I shouts.

“How big is Japan?"’ comes back Gilli-
gan. “I want to keep the ball in the
country.”

“You kept it here,” I remarks dis-
gustedly, after he takes a barn-door swing
at the third strike and misses it a foot.

Stupe’s pretty grouchy when he goes out
to take his place at second. The first col-
lege boy up shoots a clean single to right.
The second slaps the ball in the same diree-
tion. Perritt, out in the sun field, comes in
with a rush, grabs the pill on the hop and
with the same motion heaves it to Glover
at first. Glover's on the job, too, and lets
no lawn grow under his feet. He snaps the
ball to second for a fast double. The

(Continued on Page 117)

I got a |

There’s |

|

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Branches iv Principal Cite

October 17,1925

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(Continued from Page 115)
throw’s a little wide, but Gilligan reaches
out, snags the old onion with his meat
hand and plasters it.on the Jap for one of
the snappiest two-time outs I’d ever seen.

I notices the runner getting up and dust-
ing himself off. He’s been tagged and he’s
not arguing about it. Stupe says some-
thing to him and I catch a flash of the
brown lad showing his teeth in a smile.

Then it happens. Gilligan lashes out
with his gloved mitt and catches the Jap
flush on the chin. He follows with a rain of
wallops and then the college boy starts
fighting back. After that it’s a kind of
yellow blur of a mob pouring into the field
and surrounding the players. With Hart-
nett and others on the bench, I starts out to
where the battling’s thickest; but we never
get very far. A gang rushes on us and in a
few seconds we’re having a free-for-all
knock-down and drag-out. I don’t know
how long the fuss lasted, but I wasn’t any
mother’s pride and joy when the cops

busted through to the dugout and dragged
me and the other boys free from the scrim-
mage.

The whole flock of us is taken to the
hoosegow and it’s a couple of hours before
the American consul is able to get us out
and sent to the hotel under guard. There,
for the first time since the excitement
started, I sees Gilligan, and what a fine
mess of raw meat he turns out to be! His
face is slashed to ribbons, his nose is
squashed flat and he’s a Black-Eyed Susan
for fair.

“How'd it all start?” I demands.

“Tt was the Jap’s fault,” mumbles
Stupe through his pillow lips.

“How?” I wants to know.

“Remember that snappy double play I
pulled?” asks Gilligan.

“What of it?” I snarls. ‘‘ Did you have
to knock him out as well as put him out?”

“After the put-out,” goes on Stupe, “I
turns to brown baby and says innocent,
‘Good play, huh?’”

THE SATURDAY

EVENING POST

“And what'd he do?” questions Hart-
nett. “‘I thought I saw him smile.”

“So did I,” I adds.

“He hissed me,” barks Gilligan,
“and ——”’

“Hissed you!" gasps Dave.

“Yes,” says Stupe. ‘He went, ‘y-s-s-s-
s-s-s-s.’"’

“Hissed you, hell!” exclaims Hartnett.
“That's the Japanese way of agreeing with
you. He just said yes polite.”

“Well,” shrugs Gilligan, “it’s hissing |

where I come from and that’s good enough
for me.”

Two days later I get a cablegram from
Bull Grogan. It reads:

“Return to America first ship. Good-
will tour, I laugh.”

I shows the message around.

“Laugh!” repeats Stupe. “ Where's the
joke?”

“In that mirror over there,” I yelps.
“Take a look.”

DIRTY WORK IN THE ARGONNE

“‘ Anything in his pockets can stay there,”
he said.

The chaplain started to argue, but Lieu-
tenant Baird cut in, “This man is his
brother; whatever he suys goes.”

So the chaplain reached in his pocket and
brought out a book and read out of it. I
can’t remember what it was, but I guess it
was all right. Then we lifted Snipe off the
stretcher and put two ropes under him and
let him gently down into his grave, still
wrapped in his army blanket.

There came a burst of rain, and we started
to shovel dirt into the grave as fast as we
could. Somehow we seemed to get the idea
that we ought to cover Snipe up before the
rain got him wet. Foolish idea. But any-
way that is what we thought.

Finally we stopped for a little rest, and
Lieutenant Baird and me and Henry were
standing all together on one side of the
grave. Baird kept looking at Porky, who
was on the other side.

‘*How does he seem to be taking it?”’
whispered Baird. “Pretty hard?”

“Yes,” said Henry, “awful hard. He
don’t say much, but I never seen such a set
look on his face before. If he could only
ery or something, I believe he would feel
better.”

“I wish I could talk to him,” I said, “and
make him feel better, but I don’t know
what to say.”

There came a voice behind us. It was
the chaplain.

“TI will comfort him,” he said, and
walked over to Porky. We heard him com-
mence, “‘I know you feel very badly about
this, my boy, but you must try to look on
the bright side of things.’

“Huh?” said Porky.

“Remember, all things work together
for good to those who love God.”

“You shut up!” said Porky, clenching
his hands and gritting his teeth.

“But, my boy, you don’t know what
you're saying,” said the chaplain.

“You shut up!” said Porky. And just
then Lieutenant Baird stepped up.

“Just a minute, chaplain. I want to tell
you something in private.”

He led the chaplain a little way down the
road. I don’t know what he told him, but
when Baird came back the chaplain was
not with him.

Most of the dirt was now back in the
hole. Me and Henry was working the
shovels and Porky was walking up and
down. All at once he started to talk to us.

“I’m crazy,” he said. ‘I don’t know
what I’m doing. It ain't the people around
here I want to hurt. There's ne use getting
sore at Sloppy and the top and the chap-
lain, is there?”

“No,” I said, “there ain’t.”

“They don’t mean no harm,” he went
on. “It’s the Germans I want to get.
Them damn Germans killed my brother,

(Continued from Page 17)

and I’ll get even with them if it takes till
my dying day.”

“Listen, Porky,” I said, “you're getting
yourself all tired out. Why don’t you go
and lie down in our tent, and me and Henry
will finish this job, and i

“I don’t want any rest,” said Porky,
“until I get some of them Germans. And
in the meantime, I’ll send ’em a message—
the dirty pups.”

He walked over to the Number One gun
and tooked at the shells standing beside it.

“Which one are you going to fire first?”’
he asked.

The section chief pointed out one of them
and Porky went over to the escort wagon,
fished around a while and came back with a
piece of chalk. He bent over and started
to write on the shell:

“You damn German sons of ——

There was a noise out on the road. Four
men had arrived with a stretcher on which
they were bringing a wounded soldier back
from the front lines. The four stretcher
bearers set their burden down beside the
road and came in to the battery position
asking for a drink of water.

“What you got out there?” someone
asked.

“A wounded German,” answered one of
the men.

“What?” asked Porky suddenly.

“A wounded German.”

“Aha!” said Porky, and a look came
over his face like the very devil himself.
He lifted his hand, felt at his belt, and then
I heard him whisper to Henry, ‘Lend me
your pistol; I left mine in my tent.”

“What do you want with a pistol?”
asked Henry.

“Never mind what I want with it,” said
Porky, and his face was as ugly and vicious
as any I ever saw. “If you won't give me
yours, I’ll get mine."”’ And he started for
his tent.

“Here, Porky,” said Henry, and handed
over his revolver. Porky grabbed it and
started toward the side of the road where
the wounded German had been left.

“Did you give that man a gun?” came a
sharp voice behind us. We turned, and it
was Lieutenant Baird, very severe.

‘He was going to get his own gun,” said
Henry, “so I gave him mine because it
wasn’t loaded. But we better watch him,
anyway.”

Wefollowed outtotheroad. Thestretcher
bearers were over by one of the guns get-
ting their drink of water. The stretcher was
resting on the grass by the road, and on it
was a German. His uniform was torn,
muddy, soaked with rain water. His right
arm lay across his body and it was wrapped
up in bloody bandages. His face was dirty,
unshaved, pale. He seemed to be feebly
asking for somebody.

“Wo ist Josef?” he kept saying. “ Wo ist
Josef?”

And as we came up, Porky Hennessey —
the good-natured Irishman, the gentlest
man in the battery—held the muzzle of his
pistol to the German's head and pulled the
trigger. The hammer rose—he was using
the double action—and fell with a click.
But there was no report. Porky looked
at the pistol, surprised.

“Not loaded,” he said, disappointed, and

for the first time he seemed to notice that |

the German was asking for something.
Porky looked at him for a minute and
turned to Lieutenant Baird.

“What does he want?” he asked.

Lieutenant Baird listened, asked the
German a few questions, and then turned
back to Porky.

“He's asking for his brother Josef.”’

“His brother?” asked Porky.

“Yes, he says his brother was in the
same outfit he was. Just before he was
wounded himself, he saw his brother get
hit, and thinks he was killed. But he wants
to make sure.”

“What did you tell him?”

“T told him that maybe when he gets
back to the hospital he can find out.”

“Good Lord!” said Porky. “If he has
lost his brother, he is in the same fix I am.
And I was going to kill him!”

“Well,” said Henry, “you didn’t, any-
way.”

“1’m glad [ didn’t,” said Porky. “He
ain’t the guy I want to get. But I won't
feel right until I get revenge on somebody.
I'll get the Kaiser or Hindenburg or some-
body and then I'll be satisfied.”

“Maybe,” said Henry, “that wouldn’t
do you no geud either. You thought you
was going to have a fine time killing this
German, but if you had, you would have
been sorry.”

“Yes,” said Porky.

“‘ All the revenge in the world isn’t going
to bring back your brother.”

“T suppose not,” said Porky. All of a
sudden he sat down on the ground and be-

gan to cry. “What can I do?” he said.
“What can I do?”
“T’'ll tell you,” said Henry. “ You just

come along with me."” And he put an arm
around him, lifted him up and led him down
to our pup tent. “You craw! in there,”
Henry went on, ‘‘and you pretend you are
a kid about five years old, and you cry just
as long as you want to. And that is about
the only thing I know that will do you any
good.”

So we bundled him into our tent and
walked off and left him.

“He'll feel better after a while,” said
Henry.

We looked up. Snipe’s grave had been |
finished and sodded over by the other men. |
They had set up a little wooden cross. And |

far off through the misty drizzle we could
see the four stretcher bearers carrying the
wounded German down the road.

Built with
watch-like

precision

CPPERS are rapidly becoming as com-

mon in every home as nail files, combs

and scissors--because they are just as nec-

essary as any of these toilet articles for the

maintenance of the neat appearance of
practically every member of the family.

Only the best clipper made can give you

the service and results that you want. Even

| in the hands of expert professional barbers

_ an inferior clipper will grow dull bmg h

tug and pull, and cut unevenly, That is

why your barber and nine

out of ten barbers, by

actual investigation, use

Brown & Sharpe clippers,

even though there are

a many makes which cos¢

less. Brown & Sharpe

clippers run smoothly and easily and are

— to operate because they are built

with the care and precision equal to that

used in the making of a fine watch, In fact,

they are so well built that with a little care

and only an occasional sharpening they
will last a lifetime,

The easy-grip handles make the correct
use of the Brown & Sharpe clippers «
simple matter that requires very little time
or effort.

The latest addition to the Brown & Sharpe

line is the new, easy-action

Dexter model — specially

f- designed for all-arouad

home use. The balance of

the clipper is perfect and

its cutting action free and

smooth. The blades oper-

\ ate as twenty tiny scissors

and, being paanedtngty

sharp, they cut the fine hairs at the back

of the neck without the gm tendency

to tug or pull. Like all Brown & Sharpe

clippers, the Dexter does not coarsen the
hair.

If you have not a pair of Brown & Sharpe
clippers already, get a pair today. Ask for
the Dexter model—the best for home use.

You can now buy
the Dexter clipper
at almost any good
barber supply, hard-
ware and cutlery
store. Price $4.50

Nine out of every
ten professional
barbers use Brown
& Sharpe clippers
in thew daily work.

BROWN & SHARPE Mfg, Co.
Providence, R.L,U.S.A.

OINAANANANLALIO

THE SATURDAY

plump hands and the smallest of feet, with
lovely fat ankles; and she managed such
an effect of trimness with her dress that
Jane was disposed to like her extreme

| breadth, especially after learning that Sam
| Slater called his wife Dumpling, or, more
| fondly, Dumplin’s. She wore black skirts

and white waists, at the neck of which she

| pinned a cameo brooch that showed a lady

bowed in mourning by the tomb of a loved
one beneath a lifelike weeping-willow tree.
What might have been an effect of austerity

| was lightened by her cheerful, rather baby-
| ish fat face with its pink cheeks, doll-blue

eyes and very yellow hair that would often
escape the confining pins.

She was merry and laughed a great deal,
which made creases in her face. But she
could be sad too; as when she told Jane of
her own lost daughter who would have been

| Jane’s age and not unlike her in appear-

ance. Then she wept abeve her sewing;
Jane thought the tears were almost funny

| as they fell on her fat and still merry cheeks,
| quite like a doll crying.

But the woman was efficient, not inter-
rupting her work for the talk, or even for

| the erying, except to reach for a handker-
| chief, which she applied with swift business-

OU'LL have a new and
happier. outlook on life
with he beautiful all-white
Tappan ac your kitchen helper.
Cooking hours will be shorter,
cooking restilts more pleasing.

Such perfeet-cooking and con-
venience features as the Wilco-
lator Oven Heat Regulator,
Cast Iron Oven Bottom, de-
signed to produce the finest
baking and other oven cook-
ing, improved raised Burners,
and Pytex Glass Oven Doors
are always at your service on
the Tappan.

Don't wait any longer to buy your
Tappan and enjoy the happier
cooking haute which it affords.

THE TAPPAN STOVE CO.
MANSFIELD, OHIO

SeTANLISHED 1881

“The range
avith rounded
corners”

like strokes; and in almost no time—in
two jerks of a lamb’s tail, as she herself
boasted—-she had transformed Jane from a
very old-looking little girl to a very young-
looking woman, at least in two dresses that
would suffice for her professional labors.

Tided thus swiftly over a crisis that had
simply clamored to be met—things were
always put off so long in the Tedmon
house—Jane’s friend asked to be shown
those fabulous silk and velvet gowns of old
Tedmons; it seemed a rumor had long been
current in the village that the house pos-
sessed more than one capacious closet
fairly stuffed with them, Jane was only
too glad to exhibit this treasure, and was
gratified when Mrs. Slater became so ex-
clamatory with delight over them, clasping
her plump little hands and uttering cries
that quickly subsided into throaty gurgles.

The closet was emptied, the gowns ar-
rayed on the big bed where she and Sarah
had first put them on a long-past rainy
day. But this time there was no play, no
dressing for a reception, Each was coldly
appraised with a view to its utility; this
was plain fact; it had to do with growing
up. Mrs. Slater began a thoughtful ex-
amination of them, holding each one up,
scanning it front and back with eyes fun-
nily pursed in calculation, contracting vo-
luminous sleeves with her fingers, gathering
outmoded ruffles under a condemning
glance, abolishing trains with swift ges-
tures of disdain, fingering lace and silver
embroidery with respectful little touches.

“Great bustles and overskirts!” cried
the expert at last, uttering the phrase, with
rare humor, as an oath. “And scalloped
sleeves and fichus and what nots!”

Then she grimly chose two of the gowns
for immediate slaughter—the canary-
colored silk with silver embroidery and the
wine-colored velvet. They needed a lot of
what nots taken off them, what nots being
no longer worn; but they could be made to
renew their youth.

Jane trembled at sight of the gleaming

| shears already drawn by the impassioned
| executioner and was unable to suppress a

TAPPAN

GAS RANGES
With Oven Heat Regulator

The Teggen Range must be seen
wily

to he fi appreciated. By ali
means see it at your dealer's be
fore you buy a new stove. In one
of the beautiful models you are
sure on find your ideal of a range

ery at the first assault on the wine-colored
velvet. It was apparently so uncalculated,
the cruel cutting of a beautiful thing by a
woman seized with a blind rage for de-
struction. But she was instantly reassured.
If two perfectly stunning gowns for Jane
didn’t come from those antique survivals,
then the name of Jane’s friend was not
Maurine Slater. Jane knew it was nothing
but Maurine Slater, and the gowns that did
come very beautifully confirmed it.

Long before the last touches were done,
she knew they were going to be stunning;
she knew it with the first fittings that

| equally excited them both. She learned,

EVENING POST

COUSIN JANE

(Continued from Page 29)

too, that she would probably never be
much above medium height—and this was
amazing after all the talk she had heard
about her unseemly length. She had sup-
posed she would be taller than anyone in
the world, would continue for years to out-
grow skirts in a way that drew unfavorable
notice. She could see plainly that she didn’t
look so tall in the new dresses as she had in
her old short ones, and here she was al-
ready come, on excellent authority, to her
ultimate height.

“Of course you'll fill out some,” ex-
plained Mrs. Slater at a fitting, speaking
through lips that bristled with pins.

“Oh,” said Jane, standing stiffly but
shifting her eyes sidewise, on that, to her
friend’s yellow head, bowed low on a front
that had also filled out. She wondered how
much Maurine Slater considered ‘‘some.”’
Did she think it meant the same for every-
one?

When the gowns were done, Jane re-
membered the cedar chest full of minor
fineries. Mrs. Slater again became exclama-
tory to the point where she could merely
gurgle over each find of lace and embroidery,
fans and handkerchiefs. She insisted on
going to the bottom of the chest, which Jane
had never dene, discovering silk stockings
of delicate tints and satin slippers with
jeweled buckles that brought cries of rap-
ture from Jane herself. Nothing like those
in the Union Hill shop! In a pair of the
sheer stockings, and slippers with gleaming
toes, she felt an exaltation that she had
learned to call religious.

Then at the very bottom of the chest the
tireless Maurine Slater uncovered an im-
portant long box that she snatched open to
disclose an undoubted wedding gown of stiff
white silk, with its cascade of lace veiling.
This find renewed the excitement of both
and caused Mrs. Slater to become emo-
tional. It reminded her, she said, but did
not explain of what. They spread the gown
out on the bed and draped the lace beside it.
Still emotional, Mrs. Slater, in a choking
voice, said that it would be Jane’s wedding
gown, needing only to have a lot of what
nots removed that wouldn’t take a second.
Embarrassed by this suggestion, Jane car-
ried it off by remembering something light.

“Oh, I shall have a good fling before I
put my head in the sack.”

“Fair enough,”’ conceded her friend as
she wiped her eyes. “But when the time
comes, there’s your dress—though God
knows how you'll ever find the man to it in
a frowzy old mining camp that went to
sleep forty years ago. However ———”

Being calmer with this, she examined the
wedding finery more judicially.

“Of course, they’re not pretty; not the
Queen of Sheba herself could look passable
in one. Why brides keep on making terrible
shows of themselves in 'em is beyond me—
even letting their pictures be taken so
people can’t forget what sights they were.
Marriage is serious aplenty, but why in the
name of Peter and Paul should that keep
a bride from looking her best? Let the
serious come when it must, I always say.”

She studied Jane at length in the new
canary silk, musingly fingered a fold of the
wedding gown, kissed Jane on both cheeks,
burst into tears and went gulping from the
room on her quick little feet that looked too
frail for their life work.

Jane’s discovery, after the new gowns,
that she was definitely grown up came with
no particular shock, because she had so long
been aware that the process was under way.
It seemed to her that her eyes first grew up.
She began to take the cool measure of so
much that her child eyes had ignored, or
perhaps glanced at without appraising.

There was the village of Union Hill. Her
known world had at first been the Tedmon
house, its people and the grounds close
about. Beyond its orbit was vagueness
without personal relation to het, save for a
post office fertile with circulars, the out-
lying blue Alsatian mountains, and a few

October 17,1925

shuffling phantoms of people too old for any
actually operating world. Then as her eyes
grew up she began to orient herself. The
town with its wider surroundings began to
blend plausibly with her first-known little
universe; its inhabitants, no longer grayish
phantoms scarce distinguishable one from
another, came to be recognized as individu-
als with certain clear relations to, and
definitely involved with, herself and the
people more nearly about her.

She was in a wide valley of the moun-
tains, an understandable distance from
cities, where years ago a fevered horde of
gold seekers had found the metal in plenty
and conceived that so it would always be
found. Then one day it hadn’t been found,
and Union Hill had become a dead—but
unburied—mining camp surviving by the
inertia of a few souls who had clung and got
very old in a stubborn belief that the dead
camp would revive. ‘Come back” was
how they put it.

Certain of these survivors still prospected
the cafions round about, from habit, if not
quite hopefully; while those who had aged
heyond the physical requirements of this
diversion came hobbling to the post office,
leaning on sticks they had cut and quer-
ulously prophesying the always imminent
resurrection. To these the ancient dis-
mantiled stamp mill at the end of town was
an eloquent reminder and a portentous
promise. They were as little troubled by
its years of disuse as by the main-street
perspective of shops with eyes long tight-
shut beneath uncompromising wooden lids.
They were still alive in the past they daily
reinvoked. They didn’t like to read patron-
izing contemporary smartness about “‘the
land of cities that were,” or “the slumber-
ing land of yesterday.”

Jane often listened to this talk in the
post-office forum and loved to watch the
ancient graybeards nod emphasis to their
rosy predictions. There would always be a
bit of good news to spice the garrulity.
Elihu Dunway had just found ore rich in
galena and showing “some” silver in Nine
Mile Cafion; or old Abner Lyman—so
warped with years that even Union Hill
called him old—would come and mumble
mysteriously about certain float rock he
was trailing, in a secret recess of the hills,
to a ledge that was bound to make the camp
hum again, the indications being that the
ledge carried just enough ore to hold the
gold together.

At certain seasons the daily gossip might
be made more vivacious by the showing of a
tiny nugget of gold just found, perhaps in
the middle of the unpaved street or close by
the sidewalk. This would be after a spring
rain had flooded the street from a near-by
gulch, washing random spoil from its au-
riferous earth. Marey Tedmon had found
such a nugget one day, but didn’t exhibit
it to the post-office crowd. He merely
polished its smooth side and took it home to
lay beside the skull, where, he told Jane—
but not why— it so fittingly belonged.

As she gradually comprehended Union
Hill, Jane found it easier to relate all Ted-
mons and Starbirds to the town. It was
after she began to know it that she was in-
spired one day to tell Marcy a wonderful
way of restoring: the Tedmon fortunes.
This was to sell the costly mansion for an
immense sum, buy a smaller house that
needn't be a marision and have a lot of
money left.

“Splendid!’’ Marcy cried. ‘‘Here’s an
investment of several hundred thousand
dollars lying idle.”” Yet Jane had no time
to feel proud. ‘But who'd give a thousand
for it?” he quickly added. That, it ap-
peared, explained ‘“‘Tedmon’s Folly.” “I’m
afraid,”’ he continued, more gently, as he
noted Jane’s chagrin, ‘‘ that we'll have to do
for ourselves, as we are, with the driblets
that come in from a few tiny things Wiley
overlooked and, I’m glad to say, doesn’t
even know about. Our properties were

(Centinued on Page 121)

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 119

Nature and the loyalty of a million care-
ful smokers — a combination hard to beat
—have combined to make White Owls
taste better than ever, :
Not that the quality has ever been any-
ing but the highest. The constant pat-
of such a vast army of sniwkers
proves that. But when a tobacco crop is
un fine— such as that being used
in White Owls—it is only natura! that it
ld add an extra sweetness of taste,
Serge ed mellowness and fragrance,
Nature, alone, could not give
vou this extra value that ai] true
judges of cigars so quickly note
n White Owls. ere it not for the
nillions of true White Owl friends
it would be impossible to use this
uper-fine tobacco and still maintain
the low price of 2’for 15 centa.
It is these friends —the know-
smoking public — that make
possible the astounding preduc-
tion record of a million a day and
enable -us to accept a fraction
of a cent profit on White Owls.
bd Greater value always com-
mands widespread po vularity,
In every field of , businesa
there is one outstanding
success gained by giving
more for the money. Profit
per sale is secondary to
the importance of vol-
ume business and good
will.
On this sound policy the
<Ges of White bwis has
~ \been built. They represent,
veyond doubt, the moat re«
markable value in any cigar
today.
The tremendous, pepularity
»f White Owls does more
than benefit the smoking pub-
, : 4 lic in price. It builds up
v % buying resources that enable
the manufacturers to have
the pick of the beat erops.
r It enables them to store
: up tremendous reserves of
these wonder crops so that,
White Owl smokers are
never at the mercy of
varying conditions of eli-
A mate and soil. It can
: truthfully be said that the
goodness of White Owls
never varies. The taste
and mellowness you like
so Well today will be the
same tomorrow, next
month, forever.

Small wonder, then,
that so many men who
can afford to pay much

Package of 10 for 75¢ more for cigars smoke
= White Owls. They

| judge them by quality
alone, for they know

7K . : . that if White Owls
HEN a cigar is so preferred that a million a Were bot made atthe
| day is necessary to meet the demand, it seems eg of a million 6
| tes i day, they could not be
too much to say “tasting better than ever. sold at 2 for 16 centa
White Ow!ls are happy
Sg ae proof that price no
But facts are facts. longer can be taken
: as an indication of
Every so often Nature surpasses herself to better vlgnt aiiality

| a even the best. And the tobacco now being used in caged

ta sweetness of taste

White Owls is from the finest crop in years. that this fine crop
jax added te White

Sweeter tasting than ever, more mellow, more fra- ba silrgengoy
{ , more and more
rf grant, White Owls at 2 for 15 cents, are, beyond smokers to buy
A them in the handy

doubt, the most remarkable cigar-value on the market. pack of ten. i

of your favor

involves just a
te cigar. It's

emalliinvest
e e " he common
a million a day Senralk Cyan c ‘ine 4 bay Your

a ene

The wonderful

ment but it pays
nighty large
lividends in the
satisfaction of
newing you
ave always in
jour poeket
resk and in
verfect condi

ton a supply

THE SATURDAY EVENING

Picture a fascinating new Jordan
Line Eight Sedan at the startling price
of $1845.

Imagine the lightest, most agile motor
car of its size you ever drove—at such
a price—and with Jordan quality—
Jordan sturdiness—Jordan speed—and
Jordan good looks.

This new and charming companion for
The Great Line Eight has established
a new price level for quality cars.

Fight cylinders are the choice of
people of good judgment and good
taste. Jordan has proved that in the
success of The Great Line Eight.

Now you can buy a Line Eight Sedan

at a price never thought of before in
the eight cylinder field—even lower
than a good many sixes.

The body is all-steel—and patented—
quiet as steel Pullmans are more quiet
than the old fashioned wooden ones.

Low hung—roomy—broad vision—
slender corner posts—no “blind spot’”’
-almost like riding in an open car.

Finished and appointed as Jordans
always have been. Optional colors,
of course.

Everybody knows that a Jordan at
such a price, with Jordan quality, is sure
to tax the capacity of the factory—and
that some people will have to wait.

JORDAN WOTOR CAR COMPANY, /nc., CLEVELAND, OHIO

Price quoted, f. 0. b. Cleveland, Ohio

Somewhere far beyond the place
where men and motors race
through city canyons—-lone trails
and winding waters beckon and al-
dure. There, life truly slips its tether
and every day is full of promise.

October 17,1925

This Astounding Jordan Sedan at 51845

ee

oh

(Continued from Page 118)”
pretty extensive. Even Wiley’s genius
wasn’t equal to swallowing them at a gulp.
To be sure, that’s, in a way, unfair to the
poor chap. He’d have been so much more
thorough with only a little more time.”

He dilated on the unfairness to his brother
of the first comment. It was one of those
times that he reminded Jane of the occasion
when she found herself in a clump of nettles.
Marcy could affect her very much as nettles
did. But the solving of that old mystery
about Tedmon’s Folly made her fee! still
more grown up. She could identify now an
attitude of the townspeople that had often
vaguely piqued her—a kind of pitying con-
descension. The Tedmons had committed
a tremendous folly, and their fellow citizens
were not averse to showing that they recog-
nized it as precisely that.

The night she realized that she had com-
pletely grown up she revealed herself, with
a try at the casual manner, to both the
brothers Tedmon. She wore the canary
silk and a pink coral necklace with pendant
that the cedar chest had yielded. It was
the first time her neck and arms had been
formally exposed to public inspection.
Wiley Tedmon was delighted with her.

“Who'd ever have thought it?” he
warmly demanded after an ardent survey
of her well-fitted lines. Then, at hisdemand,
she stood away from the bed and slightly
lifted her skirts that he might rejoice with
her in jeweled slippers and stockings of
pale silk. ‘Great guns! Who'd ever have
guessed it? Come close again.” He took
her hand and held it up, running an expert
eye along the cool soft contours of an arm
to where it melted into a pale little expanse
of shoulder. ‘Here you’ve gone and be-
come a grand lady, Tiddledywinks, just
overnight! And you actually have a way
with you—I never knew that either. You
certainly have a way with you!”” Then he
more closely scrutinized the hand he held,
and his face clouded. ‘ But you're letting
your hands go. Haven't I spoken about
that? Haven’t you remembered? Dear
me, those hands will never do—rough
hands! Calluses!”’

Jane felt more grown up than ever. This
was how he had talked years ago of Sarah’s
hands, roughened from the same unavoid-
able causes. "

Marcy Tedmon, Jane thought, was just a
little abashed in her new presence. He
formally complimented the craft of Maurine
Slater and said that Jane in the yellow gown
was pleasing, especially with the note of
coral at her throat; but he was not so ex-
pansive as Wiley had been. His regard
would return to her during their dinner with
something troubled, or at least puzzled, far
back in his eyes, and hespoke less frequently
than usual.

Jane found his long silences not un-
welcome. They gave her time to anticipate
Gus Pedfern. She rather loathed Gus, and
tried to deny to herself that she was flush-
ing with wonder at what he would say to
her newness. As if it mattered!

xT

ANE wasn’t completely grown up—a
matter of fifteen, perhaps—when she
first learned that the Pedfern lout was pe-
culiar. From year to year she had loathed
him since the day he so uncouthly derided
her new shoes and bluntly doubted the su-
premacy of Cousin Wiley’s hat. But under
something like an armed and suspicious
neutrality she had continued to play games
him and his sister in that orchard nook
where there was a seesaw and a swing, and
secretive glades adjoining in which one
could quiveringly hide when pursued.

It came vividly, but quite inexplicably,
to her one day that she was playing with
Gus Pedfern boorishly impatient of any but
rough games, to the exclusion of his sister,
who would be compelled to stand aside from
their tussles, a bored onlooker. Jane for a
moment caught herself up on this discovery.

She, too, like Alpharetta, had always pre-
ferred a gentler scheme of play, something
with talking, and no rude pushing or grap-
pling. Yet here she was not only enduring

but none too subtly inviting the more
boisterous sort of pretense, with its sudden
rude contacts, seeking to veil her directness
under little frenzies of dismay or baldly
pretended angers at a random violence.

All at once, clearly, she saw through her-
self; that she was initiating tussles with the
offensive Gus; snatching his dingy cap
from his head to hold it provocatively be-
hind her, deliciously exerting all her strength
until he regained it; tagging him and run-
ning so that she must be quickly caught;
pretending she broke from jail so that Gus
would have to wrap both his stout arms
about her and drag her back, squealing,
flushed and waiting only for breath to make
another futile dash for liberty.

But if she knew she incited these tussles,
she was ignorant of any reason for doing so.
Nor did she waste time searching for one.
She merely thought it strange that she
should still loathe Gus and yet constantly

* be contriving those near approaches which

she was shrewdly aware would have been
much less frequent if Gus had been left to
himself. The contacts at this time were
never of his seeking.

At intervals she would pause to study
him with cook distaste—a stocky, homely
boy with a wide mouth, a broad nose and
two dark slits of eyes close’ up under his
shock of black hair. But in his very vio-
lence, formerly so objectionable, there was
now some tyranny that irresistibly drew
her, even when she knew, with shame in her
heart, that she was being coarsely loud and
rowdy. She became defiantly louder when
she felt the shame. Something beyond her
vision was compelling her out of her gentler
self.

In those days she waited with a curious
tenseness for this playtime, restless, bored
with herself, impatient of her surroundings,
until it came. When Gus and his sister
didn’t arrive promptly she crossed a lane
to the Pedfern place and called, “Alpha-
retta! Oh, Alpharetta!” not thinking of
Alpharetta, but of Gus, whom she disliked.
If they came to return with her, she would
have Gus’ hat behind her and an impudent
daring in her eyes before they even crossed
the lane, nor would she be long after that in
breaking from jail under the very eyes of its
determined custodian.

Yet when the playtimes stopped, after
Gus went to learn the blacksmith’s trade of
Sam Slater, Jane quit feeling that he was
peculiar; then she could remember hardly
anything about him not unpleasant. She
was dimly relieved at this discovery and
glad he had gone. She hadn't at all liked
that too vivid impression that she was loud
and rowdy when she clearly knew that she
was a gentle, well-behaved and very quiet
young girl who liked best of all to read his-
tory. When she passed Sam Slater’s shop
one day and saw an incredibly begrimed
Gus working at the forge, she felt indignant
at him and ripped out her lovely oath that
she had found in a story.

“Egad!” she muttered grimly. “I'd
just like to see him try to pull me around
like that again! He’d better wait till he
learns some manners.” And she stalked
past the shop with a rigid disdain, wonder-
ing if Gus wouldn’t see that he was being
scorned.

It was a year or so later, and still before
the Slater transformation, that Gus became
more intelligible to her, if not less troubling.
The new understanding began on a Sunday
afternoon of early summer when a high
wind blew and she went for a walk with
Gus and his sister. The budding black-
smith was washed of his grime and wote
Sabbath garments that gave him a new
dignity, including a crisp straw hat in place
of the dingy cap that Jane had been wont
to snatch. She had no impulse to snatch
the hat; they seemed beyond scuffles, in a
gusty new world where one must progress
sedately and converse instead of shouting
or squealing.

But she was conscious that she liked to
walk beside Gus. When their hands
brushed lightly together she felt a quicken-
ing little shock, and in embarrassed recog-
nition of this she would begin to talk with

THE SATURDAY

EVENING POST

animation so that no one could suppose her
to be conscious of hands. She talked a great
deal, because soon she was deliberately
bringing about those apparently random
and meaningless contacts.

They leisurely climbed the bare scarred
hill east of town and reached the pine forest
on a ridge above. The trees were tall and
sparsely set, so that sunlight sifted down
among them and spiced the thin air with a
resinous scent that they gulped with deep
breaths. In open glades, as they went on,
they found clumps of wild azalea and plumes
of white syringa. And the wind kept up for
Jane a steady excitement in the pine tops.
At intervals a dead branch would be dis-
lodged and hurtle to the ground. Gus said
they must watch for these, because they
were widow makers—that was what the
lumbermen called them. Sometimes he
would seize Jane’s arm to wait while a
branch fell or to divert their way around
one that might fall.

Then they came to a gulch where widow
makers no longer menaced. Here were coi-
orful madronas with peeling bark, quaking
asp with leaves prettily dancing in the
breeze, and dense growths of laurel and
bay that loaded the air with new scents.
There were also Madeira vines that would
trip the feet and cause Gus to save Jane
from falls. There was an old tunnel boring
into the gulch side; this was thought to be
interesting, and Jane was helped up the
narrow trail so they could explore it, She
and Gus went in a littie way, Alpharetta
being afraid of snakes. They stood in the
dusk beyond its mouth in a sudden stillness
that was disquieting to Jane. She affected
an interest in the tunnel wall, however, and
in a rusty pick long since abandoned by
some discouraged miner, doing this to hide
that she had consciously come there to be
alone with Gus. There was a moment of
silent awkwardness when they both seemed
to realize their loneness and the need of the
otherwise negligible Alpharetta to put them
at ease again. And Jane missed the wild
roar of the wind and the resistance her body
must offer to its thrust. They went quickly
into the sunlight and at once became noisy
with talk,

Descending the gulch trail, they came on
a coiled snake with lifted head and darting
tongue. The girls screamed, but Gus killed
the snake and seemed to regard the incident
as tame. He was surprised when Jane re-
fused to accept the six rattles and a button
that he coolly severed from his quarry. She
couldn't be brought to touch the thing, and
screamed when he sounded the rattle in her
face.

She had felt curiously afraid of Gus, too,
while he was beating the snake—something
sinister in his deliberate, ruthless eyes and
the cool efficiency of his blows. But again,
when the trail widened and they could walk
side by side, she found her hand bringing
about those little careless meetings with his
hand that sent a strange current pulsing up
her arm. She talked glibly, as before, to
make it seem that she must be wholly un-
conscious of these moving encounters.

Presently she suffered a quite unnerving
shock—she had to recognize that Gus Ped-
fern was behaving with a subtlety like her
own, deliberately managing, but with ap-
parent casualness, those whispering con-
tacts she had supposed herself alone to be
aware of. After that they were both self-
conscious and studied ways to bring Alpha~-
retta into their talk. If their glances met
they shifted quickly. But whatever they
talked of led somehow to hands,

Alpharetta, pleased and voluble at the
notice they were taking of her, told of a boy
at school that she perfectly hated, adding
that old Grandma Mulkins said if you
hated anyone you would come out all over
with warts. Alpharetta doubted this, but
Gus said it was probably true, and boldly
took one of Jane’s hands to examine it for
warts. He was a long time at this, minutely
examining each finger.

Jane tried to make her hand limp in his
grasp, but all at once her fingers, in spite of
this effort, nervously contracted in one
warmly answering clasp of his own that

121

might seem to be merely a part of the play-
ful jerk to free herself. Thereafter, though
Gus again skillfully diverted the talk to
hands, she walked wel! apart from him in a
bewilderment not wholly agreeable.

They parted at the Pedfern gate with
talk about another walk the following Sun-
day. Jane went on alone, turning a queer
thing about in her mind. From the parting
words it had seemed to be assumed thet
she wouldn't see Gus for another week, but
she knew this wasn’t so. Something was
going to happen.

That same evening—the moon was rising
while the last gleams of daylight lingered -
she had gone out to scatter grain to the
chickens, a duty she had promised Seth net
to forget while he was off down the vailey
to inspect a proposed new site for his turkey
ranch, She had nearly forgotten it, and felt
guilty when the chickens fluttered clumsily
from the perches to which they had already
gone. It wasn’t like her to be forgetful. She
flung the last handful of feed over the neisy
pecking heads and turned to go back.

When she saw Gus Pedfern cofning
swiftly up past the orchard, his new straw
hat already bathed in a spectra! radiance
from the warming light, she felt that she
was surprised, and yet also felt that she had
known he was coming. She waited in the
path to the house; and when Gus saw that
he had been observed he slowed his pace
to an idle saunter and affected an interest
in the growing vegetables.

“Oh, good evening!’ Jane greeted him
formally. ‘Who ever expected to see you
so soon?”

“T was just passing by,” he explained.
“T have to go on an errand.”

They went slowly on together, past the
side door and around to the front of the
house, stopping at a rosebush, a flower bed
Jane had been straightening, or anything
that gave an excuse for talk. She showed
him the old fountain with stagnant water
in its bowl, and said she knew it held
snakes, She had seen one with a frog it had
caught. They progressed haltingly to the
gate, both a little embarrassed, Jane with a
sort of murky foreboding. She knew some-
thing was different now and tried to cover
it with chatter.

At the gate Gus said, “ Well, I'll have to
be going now.”

“Oh,” Jane said, and they went slowly
back to the house and sat on the steps.

From about the corner of the house there
ran a clear river of moonlight between
them and the first masses of shrubbery that
were like a wall of luminous black velvet.
Gus said the moonlight was pretty and she
said she had always loved mocnilight. This
topic exhausted, they both grew uneasy
and sauntered to the gate, where Gus again
said that he must go.

“Oh,” said Jane, and asked him if he be-
lieved in ghosts, saying that the moonlight
made her think of them.

Gus didn’t believe in ghosts; and Jane,
letting a hand swing near one of his, suc-
ceeded in getting herself soundly kissed.

Gus went about it with the singleness of

urpose she had noted in him and been
afraid of when he killed the snake. She was
afraid now. She felt the rush of hot blood
to her cheeks, and began to push from his
grasp— but there was still that strange sweet
savor on her lips. Gus masterfully kissed
her again.

“Oh, my!” she murmured, protesting,
but she made no effort to free herself; it
was like the first time she had put the prism
of crystal to her eyes. She had never
thought much about kissing. There was
talk of it in stories, but she had believed it
to be a rather amusing form of salutation
the sort of thing she had watched at a rail-
way station so long ago, where veils might
or might not be lifted.

And all the time it had been this! Except
for the littie outery, in which tier voice had
been stifled to a whisper, she was speechless
as they stood there, an arm of the boy still
about her, a clutching hand at her shoulder.
She put a finger up to her lips as if to fee!
some change that must have come to them.

(Continued on Page 125)

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST October 17,1928

Opening Today
THE STYLE DISPLAY OF THE YEAR

The Fall Salon now in progress at Franklin showrooms presents the
season's greatest style advances. Assembling all the sensationally suc-
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At che new lower prices Franklin Series 11

includes complete equipment, even spare tire,

tube and cover. Only tax and freight are extra.

FRANKLIN AUTOMOBILE COMPANY
SYRACUSE, N. Y.

THE NEW SPORT SEDAN

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

-

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THE NEW SPORT RUNABOUT

_ ‘THE NEW COUPE —

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THE NEW ENCLOSED-DRIVE LIMOUSINE
THE NEW TOURING.

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST October 17,1925

A Real Long Range
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Do not assume from its very interesting price that
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Be ere ment SBA ae eS
}

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(Continued from Page 121)

They fell apart, both overcome with em-
barrassment. This couldn’t be passed over
as they had tacitly ignored those sought
little encounters of the hand. It had to be
recognized, and they were at a loss for
words that would do it. They went slowly
back to the portico, still silent, Jane trying
to steady her unevenness of breath. An
arm of Gus clung to her waist as they
walked.

When they halted he said, “If you’re my
girl, you can’t be anybody else’s girl.”

It helped Jane to recover.

“I’m not anyone’s girl,” she retorted.

“Ho! You are too! If you’re not my
girl, what did you kiss me for?”

She pondered this, wondering herself.

“*Well—because I couldn’t help it,’’ she
said at last. “Besides, it was your fault.”

“Well, anyway, it shows you’re my girl.”

“Does it?”’ she asked, quite simply. She
was doubtful of this; she thought it prob-
ably hadn’t shown anything nearly so im-
portant as that sounded, but she had no
wish to argue with Gus. ‘Oh, all right,”
she added, hiding her reservations under a
show of meekness.

They sat on the steps, Jane silent and
Gus talkative. But irresistibly her hand
would go out to his. Something imperious
drew it and kept her wondering what the
tyranny could be. It was so different from
taking Seth Hacker’s hand, which she
would still do at odd moments with no
thought about it.

And all at once, while Gus spoke of the
trade he was learning and where he would
go when he learned it-—he wasn’t going to
small-town it in Union Hill—and while her
hand as insistently as ever demanded his
responding pressure, she found herself
coldly wishing that this boy wasn’t that
funny Gus Pedfern. She found herself
wishing it again, when with the simple di-
rectness that had vanquished the snake, he
kissed her at parting. Something of her an-
swered to him—and she was afraid of him.

Yet he was only Gus Pedfern, to whom
she instinctively felt superior. She could
laugh at him when he had gone; it was only
his nearness that bewildered her with some
rushing wind like the one they had walked
in that day. She was uncertain what Gus
might think it meant to be his girl, but she
was pretty sure it would mean less to her.

Whatever it might mean to Gus, he held
stubbornly to it thereafter, so little trou-
bled by doubts that he seemed to need no
confirmation from her. He at once assumed
airs of ownership and command. Nor
would these be even momently quelled by
a certain tartness that came to spice her
manner in the early stages of his almost
nightly calls. He was single-minded, with
room for no suspicion that there were mo-
ments when Jane regarded him with a lively
aversion; moments in which she was re-
senting his mastery, with little nagging
taunts, trying to provoke quarrelsome pas-
sages in which she could vent a certain
blind rage, even as her hand went helplessly
out to his.

This opposition to him would endure for
whatever of daylight was left after Gus ap-
peared, while he would stand or sit at a dis-
tance and she could be coolly aware of his
broad face, his funny mouth, his unkempt
shock of black hair and his stocky, blunt
figure. But after moonlight softened these,
or an even more merciful dusk obscured
Gus, she would forget that she felt superior,
and not again laugh at him until the next
day, when she might laugh in full accord
with Seth Hacker, who frequently said that
Gus wasn’t anything he’d enter at the
county fair for a beauty prize.

“But handsome is as handsome does it,”
he would generally add. He conceded that
Gus was a steady boy, “not one of these
here fly-by-nights."’ And he spoke genially
of a time when, if Gus kept on coming to
June her this way, there would be doings
with a preacher and pretty soon Jane
would have to put another slat in the
dining-room table.

Jane would always giggle at this non-
sense. She wasn't going to put her head in

the sack until she’d had a fling. She was
merely having an affair with that Pedfern
boy.

Then the time came for Gus to “go up
the grade,”’ something that every Union
Hill boy did after he got to growing up. He
went first to Creston and later to Sacra-
mento, where he worked in a garage. He
had learned of Sam Slater to be a black-
smith, but what good was a blacksmith any
more? Gus was keeping up with the times.

Jane, on the whole, was glad after he had
gone. What he had made her feel was un-
forgettable; but Gus himself wasn’t. She
would read his occasional letters—in which
he blandly assumed that Jane was still his
girl—and wonder at herself. How could
she have tolerated that funny boy? Even
his letters were funny. He seemed to begin
every sentence with “Well.” “Well, it is
raining today, so I will write you a few
lines.” “Well, how is everything back in
the old town?” “Well, I wili close now ——””

When he came back on brief visits he was
still funny, even if he looked more impor-
tant in grown-up clothing, with a watch
chain, a ring and a jeweled scarfpin.
Decked with these gauds, and for all his
more knowing talk of men and cities, he re-
mained funny. Yet he was still invincibly
her master in moonlight or the covering
dusk, and he suffered not a moment of
doubt that Jane was inalienably his girl.

This was so certain that he rarely men-
tioned it to her. She grew rather to dread
these visits. She still believed she wasn’t
Gus’ girl. It was too easy to forget him
when he had gone. She always wished he
wouldn’t come back. But she could never
escape the thrill that news of his coming
caused her. She grew more and more im-
patient with herself when the scrawled
word of his approach would so profoundly
perturb her, even set her perversely to try-
ing a new way to mass her thick coil of hair.
She knew he didn’t notice such things; he
had never spoken of her correct nose, as
Wiley Tedmon often did. He never said
she was pretty. She was just his girl. And
she loathed his sureness.

Even on the memorable night of the
canary-colored silk, he came swaggering his
thick shoulders, whistling a lively air of the
outer world, and greeted her as calmly as if
she hadn’t, since he last saw her, become a
grown lady in a gown that had won the dis-
criminating praise of Wiley Tedmon and
caused Marcy to regard her strangely. This
enraged her to a chilling aloofness that was
only reénforced by the manner of his tardy
recognition that something had happened.

“Gee!"’ he said at last, as if his eyes had
only then opened. “You're all dolled up
tonight, ain't you?”

“Ain’t 1?” she venomously mimicked.

And that was quite all about the new
gown. Gus never knew that she had been
venomous.

In Jane’s drab memory it was, vaguely,
years afterward that Gus, with a funny
bristle of mustache and still heavier shoul-
ders, first spoke of their marriage as some-
thing long understood and now, at last,
imminent. He was a capable motor me-
chanic, making more wages, he told her,
than any five men she could name in Union
Hill. Jane didn’t bother to submit names
in this proffered competition. But she
found it impossible, against a stone wall of
certainty, to convince Gus that she had
never been his girl and didn’t mean to
marry him. She had to repeat it again and
again before he would even condescend to
admit that she was, for the moment, talk-
ing foolishly. After she brought him to
realize that it was at least more than a pass-
ing foolishness, he still maintained a calm
conviction that maddened her, talking of
other things with the quite obvious design
of giving her time to recover the normal
view of her destiny. This certainty she had
never been able to dislodge from his slow
mind, not even with the formidable weight
of years that should of themselves have de-
stroyed it. She had never wavered in her
own thought. The nearest she came to that
was during-the last few days before Gus
went away to be a soldier.

THE SATURDAY

EVENING POST

Then she really felt something more than
he had ever made her feel—a cherishing
tenderness. But she shrewdly guessed this
to be born of the moment; it was pitiful
that so vital a creature should be trapped
by circumstances, not of his own making,
that might crush him from his stolid, as-
sured and quite harmless life.

But if he could go on living, she was un-
able to forget that he would still be Gus
Pedfern, with his matter-of-fact sureness,
his always serious weighing of small mat-
ters, his occasional rather doltish mirth
that saw only surfaces and never attained
the unspoken but communicative thrill of
humor. She thought herself a bloodless
monster when, from the fleeting tenderness
she felt at parting, she found herself per-
sistently picturing Gus as going to his death
and knew that she could always think of
him more comfortably as slain on a field of
battle.
heavier and more knowing and even more
masterful, she was glad she had been clear-
minded about him.

Gus was his old assured self. He had his
job back at more money, this time, than
any ten men of Union Hill were making.
And he was always to be there when Jane
quit her nonsense. She was weary by that
time of trying to make him comprehend an
incredible thing.

“Why do you persist?” she complained.
“You must have had other girls all these
years.”

She expected a sober, hurt protest at |

what, after all, had been but a tired raillery,
and was not prepared for his cheerful “Of
course I’ve had other girls, What did you
think? What difference does that make?”

The cool bluntness of the admission
caused her a perverse little rage. But again
she was shrewd and knew it for a passing

gust. She didn’t deeply care that Gus had |
other girls; it was an unreasoning irritation.

She was fond of him and wished him well—
and at a distance. Marriage with Gus was
so preposterous.

Alpharetta was married long since and
gone to live at Creston, returning each sum-
mer to visit her people with a new baby.
She wasn’t companionable any longer, and
her babies had only a morbid interest for
Jane. She never felt the warming delight
in them that kittens always aroused.

xu

HUS time went for Jane, aligning itself
behind her in a perspective so nearly
empty that its far extent had not been re-
marked. The days had seemed to go on
leaden feet, but how swift the years! She

couldn’t recall ever counting them until |

this day of her perturbing discovery that
she was old, and then she hadn't been
moved to any serious computation until she
stood in Marcy’s room staring dazedly at
the skull, probing the flesh of her face,
tracing the line of jaw and cheek bone,
fingering the depression at her temples— in

some instinctive response to the smirking |

reminder.
“Oh, my!” she said aloud, when she had

accurately counted her unbelievable years. |
Thirty-two! But the mere count brought |
It was only another ex- |

her no dismay.
hibition of what she had noticed as a child,

that time had a sneakish way of stretching |

out before you noticed.

She smiled at a thought of Gus Pedfern.
He very clearly had no least sense of time
lapses. It was disconcerting, his ingenuous
belief that their boy-and-girl passages were
but yesterday. With Gus, at least, youth
wasn’t ever going to be a thing remembered.
She recalled herself under a shivering con-
sciousness of her own burden of years.

About to go from the room, her eyes fe!] |
on Marcy’s suit of evening clothes draped |
over a chair just inside his bedroom door; |
that suit he had stubbornly donrted each |

night of all the years. She slowly crossed to
it, realizing that she had never before seen
it except in artificial light. She took up the
coat and was shocked at the signs of wear it
revealed. In places it was threadbare; in
others glossy; here and there the seams had
started. It was such a poor, shabby little

When he came back unharmed, |

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(Serpe

the course of empire

builds its way.” Statisti-
cians predicted that the
greatest commercial and
industrial growth in the
United States, during this
decade, would take place
in the Southeast. Lake-

land, Florida, is rapidly
fulfilling this forecast.

id

Fi men hold that
the building situation is the
key to local business con-
ditions. Building affects so
many phases of industry it
may be considered the barom-
eter of business in general.

Lakeland, Florida, built 1000 new
homes during the past fifteen
months. Commercial and civic
structures swell building total for
firat seven months of 1925 to
$4,370,000. This year’s building per-
mits will exceed $8,000,000. And
this inat city ef 22,000. Assessed valua-
tion of realey, $32,000,000.00.
Lakeland pre -eminently presents
oppertunities and openings for busi-
ness, manufacturing and investments
of the more substantial type.

Fou ferther information, write

John A. Morris
Lakeland Chamber of Commerce
Lakeland, Florida

THE SATURDAY

coat, weakly persisting in a gallant pretense.
All in a moment, it seemed, as with herself,
age had stricken it. Poor coat, and Marcy

| with his fanatic puncetilio!

But not poor Jane! She proved again to
herself in Marcy's mirror that she wasn’t
threadbare and outworn.

She replaced the coat over the chair back,
conscious of a childish impulse to warn it
never to brave the light of day if it cared
what people thought of it. Then she went
softly out to her own room. She bathed,

| observing that her skin wasn’t faded or
| wrinkled like Marcy’s, and dressed with
| more tl.an usual care, in a leisurely musing
| that she often broke with confidential smiles
| for the child self she continually saw dis-

covering a strange house and strange people.

She longed to have that child by her now
to tell it wise things. And yet, came the
quick thought, what would there be to tell?
She really knew nothing herself that the
child wouldn't quite happily discover.
There was no evil to warn her of, no un-
guarded pits she might stumble into; not
even struggles to fortify her against. The
child was already old without mishap, and
facing a future that could be nothing but
placid; at least she could imagine nothing

| that wasn’t placid save an irritated pity for

Gus Pedfern, who would calmly persist in

| disregarding the inevitable.

As she worked the thick strands of her
hair into place and pinioned them, she
idly recalled a way Gus had of rushing upon
her to loosen the hair so that it would fall
about her shoulders. Afterward he would
let it run through his fingers, showing
astonishment at the mass of it. He never
remarked that it was beautiful hair, only
that there was a lot of it. And his hands

| were so big and corded and hard and ugly

with glistening black hairs. She had never
understood why they weren’t also hateful.

When she had done the hair, she slipped
on for the first time a late triumph of
Maurine Slater's, a dull cherry-colored silk
that fell in straight lines from shoulder to
hem. She was still disconcerted by the
hem’s daring altitude from the floor. She
had been aghast when Mrs. Slater first tried

| it on her and had sorely needed to be con-

| of them, all as short as this.

vinced by the fashion magazine that such
things were actually worn. But there they
were, as her friend stoutly indicated, dozens
And so few

| things were worn beneath them.

This had been another shock that Mrs.

| Slater had to counteract, not only by the

illustrations but by reading plain words
from the printed page, such as, “ Light and
slender ways of wearing less under the sum-
mer frock,” or “The greatest dressmaking
minds of today, with youth their beckoning
star, study to make the natural proportions
of the body more evident.”

Jane had been convinced, if not recon-
ciled, by the authoritative tone of these
excerpts. Mrs. Slater had added that the
new styles were a godsend, because you
could almost get two or three new gowns
out of one of those voluminous old ones. So
long as the style stayed skimpy Jane needn't
worry about frocks. Her qualms had been
dispelled for the moment; but now, as she
tilted down her mirror and stepped back
from it, there was again the feeling that she
had let her friend go too far. She twirled
quickly about, looking anxiously back over
her shoulder, with results that quite startled
her. Then she brought a chair before the
glass and tried various postures in that,
with a result equally perturbing. She was
able to reeall so many years in which garters
were not casually visible items of a woman’s
gear. She was on the point of changing to

| something more reticent about pale silk

stockings, when she caught herself up with
a iaugh, recalling Marcy’s ancient protests
about her skirts. If he protested now, she

| would show him Mrs, Slater’s magazine,

make him look at the pictures and read the
words that pronounced this skirt the only
possible length even for the aged. She was
amused at the thought of confuting a prob-

| ably shocked Marcy, who had passed his
| years playing at a sort of Olympian aloof-

| ness, a Nirvanic indifference to what didn’t

EVENING POST

actually prick him. She began to like the
gown better. Maurine Slater had known.
And she was looking young, not showing
her age in the least.

As always when she had something new,
she went to display herself to Cousin Wiley.
Even as she opened his door she was again
keenly aware of the strange new conscious-
ness of time that had just overwhelmed her,
for the familiar room was all at once a place
of faded, stale grandeur, of murky shadows
and a chill silence. It was somehow like
Marev’s coat that she had seen with new
eyes, revealing at a glance the defilements
wrought by unhurrying but relentless dec-
ades. Time had cunningly worked its rav-
ages behind a curtain and all at once the
curtain was drawn to reveal the finished,
musty tableau. As she crossed to the bed
she noted the waiting clothes on their chair
and the hat so expectant on its table, de-
tecting that the coat had become ancient
and the hat’s luster dimmed. Yet each
item was still carefully disposed.

She shivered, thinking of old Chong
brushing and replacing the things every
morning, as reverently as if he dressed an
altar. Or it was like a tomb in which, with
these powerful aids, he prayed for a resur-
rection.

But the sinister reflections passed with
Wiley’s quick rejoicing at her frock. He, at
least, needed no assurance from a fashion
magazine that this was precisely the correct
garb for Jane. He fingered the cherry-
colored silk admiringly, then had her stand
back and turned his head on the pillow for
the full view of its simple lines. She waited
for him to hint that the skirt might have
been mistakenly contracted, but he only
applauded and remarked wistfully upon a
change in fashions for the better since his
own day.

“Poor ladies! How they did have to
harness and blanket themselves!’’

His eyes seemed shrewdly to guess at
Jane’s lack of harness and blankets.

She bent to survey her feet, hands pulling
the frock aside.

“Do you think
younger?”

Wiley laughed at that.

“Younger? That’s good! How old do
you think you are, anyway, child? Of
course it doesn’t make you look younger.
How could it? Are you playing you're
grown up and old, and needing to look
younger? That’s good, that is!”

So Wiley was another who hadn’t noticed
the years sneaking by. To him it was still
only yesterday that anything had happened,
such as the coming of a child to the house.
It was true that he hadn’t for a long time
spoken of her going back to school, but she
half expected him to do so now.

“Well, anyway, it makes me look grown
up,” she humored him.

“Oh, it does that, all right.”” His eyes
again slowly traversed her. ‘“‘ Anyone could
see you're grown up. What a winsome jade!
You know you're really going to be a beauty
some day, Tiddledywinks.”

“Going to be—some day!” she echoed.

It would be harsh to tell him bluntly her
years. She would stay a child to him. His
pleased eyes lingered upon her a moment,
narrowing in some delightful retrospect as
they often did after she had shown herseif
in a new dress. He seemed to be dreaming
back into years when other colorful ladies
had submitted themselves to his discrimi-
nating appraisal.

She was glad when he no longer looked at
her—meeting his glance had become Giffi-
cult,

Her strange apprehension of forgotten
time had left even the invincible Wiley sud-
denly devastated. How could she not have
seen the marks on him before? That very
morning she had chatted unthinkingly with
him, the same care-free lord of years he had
always been, listening with the old eager-
ness while she laid out cards and told him
of glad surprises at the end of a journey —
wealth and dark, lovely ladies, and he had
glanced over at the waiting panoply of his
good days with the old confident anticipa-
tion.

it makes me look

October 17,1925

‘hen here, but a few hours later, he was
a palsied gray wreck, a mere shrunken cari-
cature, grotesque and monstrous, of the
perfect Wiley she had so long believed she
saw. She stared in sickening unbelief, and
was glad when his lids utterly fell on his
so-often reinvoked visions.

She could look freely now and wasshocked
by an insistent sense of his unrealness. All
the tangible things of the room were fa-
miliarly in place, but Wiley was no longer
there; only the worn shadow of a man, an
absurd effigy clumsily fashioned, from
which an age-cracked voice would un-
accountably issue. The pendants of beard
still faintly echoed an old warmth of color;
but their living luster had gone, and there
was something merely ludicrous in the per-
sistent jaunty curling of the bleached hair
above the thinned face to which ever-
emerging bones were bringing a kind of
tragic dignity the old careless face had
never shown.

And all this because one of her accus-
tomed placid moments had been shattered
by the swift impact of her own accumula-
tion of years. This was age coming into the
open, throwing off all pretense, telling her
what to expect, what she couldn’t hope to
evade. For the first time she felt a fear of
age. She couldn’t grow old like that; she
wouldn’t be caught in a trap. There must
be ways out.

As she softly closed Wiley’s door—afraid
to look back at him, she reflected, quite as
he had once been afraid to look at the
skull—she began hopefully to recount her
years. She must have made a mistake.
They couldn’t add up to thirty-two. It
must be only for the moment she couldn't
make them fewer. Like Marcy, with his
trove of gold coins, she was notoriously
vague about figures. Tomorrow she would
surely run down an error in that count.

In this delusive exercise she quite forgot
when she met Marcy at dinner that she was
wearing a dress of the latest mode, one that
might conceivably move him to rasping
comment. It was not until she felt herself
the target of his single glass that she re-
membered the gown. He had come in spry
and dapper and precise of step as ever, and
her mind had shifted from fervent denials
of her age to amazement at what artificial
light could do for the decrepit evening coat.
Seen thus at its proper hour, it was wholly
plausible and quite engagingly set off
Marcy’s trim shoulders. It was a veteran
not only capable but gay after years of
service. She thought there had been some-
thing tactless in her taking it unawares and
off parade.

Marcy completed his inspection of the
new gown almost before she realized he was
making it.

“How youth-giving!’’ he murmured, al-
lowing the glass to fall from his eye.

She resented that, wondering in quick
alarm if Marcy had been all this time think-
ing her old. It appeared not. He had been
considering the gown on its merits as a crea-
tion, rather than in relation to its wearer.
It was a charming thing, he assured her.

“But do you like it on me?” she insisted,
still pricked by “ youth-giving.”

“Oh, but quite tremendously! I’m not
up in couluriére’s jargon, but it—it seems
to interpret you, I might say; your per-
sonality-—that sort of thing.”” He picked
up the glass to wave it at her assistingly,
also to indicate that he had not finished.
“What I get from it is that you’re a crea-
ture of great delicacy, yet with no look of
the insubstantial that so often defeats a try
for delicacy in architecture-—even in the
other arts.”

“That's nice of you, Cousin Marcy. I
was afraid it might be just the least little
bit ——”

“Oh, not at all, not at all! I consider
nothing in all dress to have been uglier than
the modes of our mothers and grandmoth-
ers. It never did humanity the slightest
good to disguise the female figure. We
might as well have made the best of it, at
all periods. The good was certainly always
good enough, and the poorest was never so

(Continued on Page 129)

”

|
|

ls eas

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

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128 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST October 17, 1925

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SELZ ORGANIZATION fmssdson & SHOEMAKERS FOR THREE GENERATIONS

(Continued from Page 126)
bad as the clumsy swathing and ugly adorn-
ments that sought to conceal it,’”’

“And you don’t think this makes me look
too young?”

“Too young?
Why not?”

“You'd never guess how old I really am.”

“T sincerely hope not, my dear. Guess-
ing of that sort—it—it can’t be done nicely
till one gets to a certain age—years beyond
yours, I’m sure.”

She wanted to say, “Well, I’m nearly
thirty,” but for the moment she was un-
equal to it, and shifted the talk to Wiley’s
age, reflecting as she did so that Marcy’s
own face, finely wrinkled though it was, by
no means carried the full tale of his years,
His eyes were sprightly, his smile, when he
chose to have it so, was young, and his
small white teeth of a child were still as
they had always been. She had expected
to note, by this new illumination of hers,
some long-hidden signs of age such as had
shocked her in Wiley; but, beyond a loss of
timbre from his never-resonant voice, she
could detect nothing. He not only belied
his coat but he was astoundingly the Marcy
that had greeted her child self all those
years ago. Time was so reasonless in its
vagaries. She was conscious now of feeling
older than Marcy looked.

“T’ve noticed that Wiley fails,’’ he was
telling her. ‘That old tawny impudence—
rather too bad to see it go; the quality that
kept him from conceding the existence of
such things as eternal verities. Of course,
without it I should suppose he’d have been
pleading for a draught of roach bane long
since. I dare say he’s never suspected that
he died once—not quite efficiently. One
would have expected him, lying there in-
terminably, to be nagged and tortured by
ghosts of old desires that once ruled him. I
used to watch for this, but seemingly he
was never importuned. What makes it
more curious is that up to the moment of
his seizure he was ever a realist—rather
brutally so—and you know the sumptuous
ideal world he’s captained ever since.”

“It’s beginning to hurt me,” Jane said,
“the way he has always expected to get
up-—-those clothes and the hat he keeps
ready.”

“He still expects it. He’d feel no sur-
prise whatever if he got up and put the
clothes on tomorrow. He wouldn’t even
know he had lost time. If the dead lived
again, wouldn’t they have to begin with
their last memories? Cesar, after all the
centuries, would only know he had been
stabbed, and Wiley Tedmon would only
know yesterday— his last active yesterday.”

He mused on this, then brightened with
another disclosure.

“T paid for Wiley. I came too soon after
him. I wasn’t robust, wasn’t a doughty
realist. But our mother was proud of me
because I learned to read before Wiley
could. I was a prodigy of learning while he
still floundered down the alphabet. So she
thought to. make something choice of me,
not knowing I needed at least a bit of his
tougher fiber, some slight gift for the real.”

“Poor Cousin Marcy,” Jane murmured.

“TI paid for Wiley,” he went on, a tinge
of asperity now in his tone. “But Wiley
never paid for anyone, even for himself, as
we've just noted. Another man would
have suffered in so many ways—even for
having lost great sums he was supposed to
guard for other people. God knows a tithe
of mine would have done me handsomely if
I could have rescued it. But Wiley actu-
ally feels benevolent about the mere money
he lost; he was so rich in good intentions
for the others. He hasn’t even suffered from
his own disability. It hasn’t tormented him
to lie there away from the world. Appar-
ently he hasn’t so much as wanted to want
the things he couldn’t have any more.
Suppose he had continued to lust after the
world, the flesh and the devil—his trinity.
That would have made him pay something,
wouldn’t it?”

This was plainly a rhetorical question
that called for no answer, so Jane offered
none.

No. Young—of course.

THE SATURDAY

“Even suppose” —-the speaker grew more
genial, a sign informing Jane that he was
relishing a moment of pure spite—‘‘sup-
pose the millions had come back while he
lay helpless—all that he craved, in fullest
abundance, and he unable to feast. Oh, but
that would have made him pay! Tantalus,
indeed!”

He stopped, eyes narrowed on this vision
of a helpless and tortured Wiley solicited by
the delights he had prized, with all power
to command them but no capacity to re-
ceive.

“What a superb revenge to take on an
enemy,” he sighed at last—‘‘to crowd all
upon him after he can take nothing!”

This was Marcy being waspish, as Jane
had long known. He was old, after all;
even senile now, in his rapt contemplation
of Wiley in torment. She began to be again
uncomfortably aware of her own age.

“We're all getting old.”” She broke in
with this on Marcy’s mean little ecstasy.

“Eh, old? Not too old to feel, surely.
Wiley never had power to feel anything but
the obvious. But I’m not too old. And
you—you’re merely not too young.”

“I’m not far from thirty,” she lightly
said. If he misconstrued this, it wouldn’t
be her fault.

But Marcy chilled her. His lips moved a
moment in a silence she found ominous.

“Quite true, my dear,’’ he said at last,
crisply, and with a troubling glance at her.

He spoke then of the asparagus, while the
ripe coolness of Jane’s cheeks took on a
warmer tint. More than ever she hated
age. Couldn’t there be a way out—at least
out of this house of spiteful age?

Marcy was babbling of Italy and ripe
figs while she was remembering Sarah Ted-
mon and her way out. Sarah hadn’t given
up; but, as Marcy had remarked at the
time, there weren’t enough door knobs left
to afford a second flight. She fell to won-
dering about Sarah, so mysteriously swal-
lowed by the place that waited for her.
Had she been happy? Had she done more
than escape from one hole to another? She
must be very old now; wishing, perhaps,
she hadn’t escaped. But no; that wouldn’t
be like Sarah. She was game. Whatever
she had done, she'd be glad of.

Her companion toyed daintily with a
dessert of fruit, chatting along smoothly,
and with an unwonted good humor that
Jane suspected to have been caused by his
neat, silent riddling of that incautious an-
nouncement about her age. Though he
spoke of other things, he would now and
then smile knowingly at her as if he still
enjoyed the little triumph. He was telling
her of a certain fruit to be found in the
Orient, the mangosteen, which he consid-
ered the world’s only perfect fruit, a crea-
tion of such delicacy that it never long
survived beyond its habitat, a thing of deli-
cate tissues beneath a stout husk, and of a
flavor truly paradisical.

Jane affected interest in a fruit that
couldn’t survive outside its own narrow
valley, wondering if she were possibly like
that and would wither and perish beyond
the girdle of mountains that seemed always
to have shut her in; but she felt that
Marcy, under his light talk, was really
saying, “Not far from thirty, my dear—
true enough! As if my useless web of a
mind didn’t at least imprison wholly unim-
portant dates!”

When they left the table, Marcy, still
genial, suggested an evening of reading.

“Shall we go on with the little Corsican
who conquered his world by impudence?
You'll find his mother was the only one of
the family with any real strength of char-
acter.”

But Jane didn’t want Napoleon. She al-
ready knew why Marcy considered his
brother to have ably surpassed that ruler,
for whom one Waterloo had sufficed; and
the night before she had been instructed
that the Corsican’s star had been dimmed
because he possessed nothing more potent
than impudence; a certain vitality of im-
pudence, effective only during a narrow
span of animal life. Napoleon’s high days,
said Marcy, were nicely numbered by the

EVENING POST

days of his favorite war horse. Horse and
master passed together, neither having a
talent for survival after brains alone would
prevail. The stricken ruler had perhaps
stupidly kept a uniform at hand where he
could watch it and dream of riding over the
world again.

So Jane spoke of a headache, and Marcy
left her with murmurs of condolence. Na-
poleon wouldn't have been unbearable, but
she wanted to be away from little shrewish
Marcy Tedmon, who, for the moment,
wasn’t enough cast down by his own years.
She wanted to be away from everyone old,
to be old all by herself.

When Marcy had gone, she walked ab-
sently through the lower hall with no de-
sign other than to be solitary, and was
presently surprised to find herself sitting on
the edge of an armchair in the unchanged,
ancient parlor, She was suddenly aware
that she couldn’t remember ever having sat
down in that room of still and forbidding
grandeur. It had been enough to pass
through, with a pause here and there before
some bit of its archaic flaunting. It invited
one to sit no more than a museum would.
Yet she sat there stiffly while the dusk
grew, her mind a motley of remembered
phrases, of glimpses of herself in a glass, of
fleeting and absurdly unrelated impressions
that dazed her by their stupid impacts and
Jeft her with a wearying sense of desolation.

She got from it a sharp conviction that
she must do something. But this some-
thing was undefined; do what, to what end?
She wanted to think, but nothing came save
meaningless scraps—a glimpse of the skull
with its lipless grin, a hand of Wiley Ted-
mon, transparent now, its ring loose on a
shrunken finger; the weed she had pulled
to recall matter-of-fact things when she felt
those whispers in the garden; a perfect
fruit that couldn't be taken away; Na-
poleon and his horse passing together—it
was a rabble she couldn’t command.

Again it came to her that she had in all
the years never sat in this room before.
That, of itself, was queer. Then it occurred
to her that she had instinctively done a new
thing to help her to some new thought that
might be stirring in a far recess of her mind,
some long-closed chamber. She mused on
this; but it proved fruitless, leading her
merely to the locked wine cellar which she
saw opened for long-gone Tedmons who
began to people the room in groups gay
with laughter and quick speech.

She got up, shrugged her way from this
phantom festival, rid her eyes of all those
meaningless unrelated images that had run
before them, and went to stand outside in
the portico with a mind at last placidly va-
cant. Off to the west sunset fires were
fuming where the valley narrowed, lighting
the more distant peaks that hemmed her in.
But she no longer thought of them as a
barrier. She wasn’t thinking now; even
her age was happily obscured.

In this mental void she relaxed a long
time. Then the immediate engaged her;
she smiled with a sudden resolve. She went
quickly to her room, taking the back stairs
so that she wouldn’t be heard by Marcy,
changed the satin slippers for a stouter pair
and threw on a dull-colored old cloak that
would make her more seemly—it all but
swept the ground—to the unschooled eyes of
Union Hill.

It was picture night in the village and
she was going alone, eluding Marcy, who
might have wished to go. Her mind was at
rest again, but still she preferred not to be
with Marcy just yet; not with anyone
ironic and so old that he had no future.

Union Hill had not escaped quite all the
penalties of progress that swept the world
beyond its girdle of hills. The motor car
had come as a sensational contraption of
which nothing good was prophesied, and
stayed into a period where it was no longer
remarked by even the oldest citizens. The
airplane almost daily winged a high course
over the sleeping town, sometimes so low
that its monstrous drone could be heard
and the sheen of its wings dazzle upturned
eyes. And the moving picture had, even
more quickly than either of these triumphs,

129

become, twice each week, a coherent part of
the town’s night life. This had meant, too,
distinctly more to the Tedmons than to
other people, for the old bank had been
transformed into a picture theater—-‘‘ Pal-
ace Theater,” the electric lights boasted --
its counters and cages banished, ita floor
space lined with chairs and a screen hung
at one end within a shallow proscenium. It
had amused Marcy Tedmon to portray cer-
tain shocked old ghosts returning to view
this profanation. They wouldn’t be ap-
peased, he thought, by the pittance of
rental paid monthly into depleted Tedmon
coffers, or pleased by the eagerness with
which their impoverished descendants re-
ceived it.

Jane’s first picture views of an outside
world she had but skirted as a child left her
with sensations not entirely pleasurable.
She had come rather to disbelieve in that
world. It had its place in the background
of her mind, but only as something pre-
posterous and distorted beyond human cred-
ibility—something wild she had dreamed.
She had never gone out from Union Hill,
except the time Gus Pedfern drove her in a
motor car to Creston, where the trains
passed. She had watched a train stop there,
and it might have been the train she had
ridden on, She even looked at the windows
of the forward car for an unnaturally old
boy who might be briskly vending his
wares from a basket.

At that time she hadn’t begun to see, as
another person, the small girl who got won-
deringly out of the train and kept deter-
minedly within reaching distance of her
companion. And save for this one ex-
cursion, her life had had few reminders that
a world went on outside the mountains.
Even the train she saw had meant but itself.
She had been unable to imagine it one of
many that had run by Creston every day
since she debarked there.

Yet after a few nights at the Palace
Theater, that forgotten outside werld had
lost its distortion and she was able to orient
herself again to wider spaces, as once Union
Hill itself had insensibly merged with her
closer surroundings of the old house, She
was now in a world that didn’t end, even
with Creston, where the trains passed; a
world where people led exciting lives quite
as matter-of-factly as the ancients of Union
Hill made their daily pilgrimage to the post
office.

They were strange people, many of ex-
quisite beauty, either very bad or very
good. And that outside world never failed
to punish the bad ones or to reward the
good with ali manner of benefits. But even
Jane, so unspotted of the world, couldn't
help very soon being aware that the dramas
she saw were pretty much cut to one pat-
tern; those punishments and rewards went
a little too inevitably to the right persons,
and the beautiful young girls were rather
too similarly persecuted through a series of
tribulations so standardized that she came
to foresee ends from beginnings. She finally
learned to accept them as fairy stories,
though Marcy Tedmon had told her that
fairy stories were immoral because they
were merely what ought to be true—aot
what had to be.

And, of course, she saw more than the
dramas that not even she could long believe
in; thrilling spectacles, lovely gowns, people
dancing in the sort of places that must have
been waiting for Sarah Tedmon; strange,
alive faces that never looked up at her, as if
she were a visitant from a distant world and
stayed invisible. And there were fleeting
panoramas of her own and foreign countries
that never failed to enchant her.

Marcy Tedmon had sat with her one
night when they saw Italy, and been moved
quite out of himself, gripping her hand at
intervals when some remembered beauty
spot flashed out at him. He could almost
see himself, he told her, climbing a wind-
swept hill of Capri—he remembered the
book he carried and a certain coat he wore.
Marcy quite won her pity that night, he
was so still on their way home, refusing to
talk even of Italy.

(Continued on Page 133)

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

To have good shirts -

you must learn how to buy them

BUYING A SHIRT is more than saying, “I want

a shirt, size 15.” For instance—

It is worth while to remember that the neck-
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Then there is sleeve-length —with a chance of
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To give you room around the chest our shirts are
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The arm-holes, too, are
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our shirts (Very important!)
are full length, to prevent
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PAJAMAS of printed broad-
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NEW YORK - PARIS:

FACTORIES AT SOUTH BEND. INDIANA

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October 17,1925

range from $2.50 to $10.00.

CRAVATS of twilled silk or
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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

MART shirt of printed, corded madras, attached collar, and band
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in RE ED TR TE SER a i. RES ESN AA eR 2

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ONE OF the outstanding developments in men’s
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SOLD BY OVER 10,000 MEN'S STORES

ae

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og

BAKELITE

ja the registered trade mark
for the phenol resin products
manufactured under patents
ewned by the Bakelite Cor-
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Tt is am exclusive trade
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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

VA new servant
in your home
—to stay

tpi the homes of America has come a new and
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And not only is Bakelite durable and protective; not only
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BAKELIT

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October 17,1925

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—_

(Continued from Page 129)

After that he always hoped for Italy
when he accompanied her, though a prog-
ress through other countries and certain
Old World cities he had known would often
leave him almost as unhappy. Once, in
Paris, he showed her the bridge he had so
often crossed, past the gray, frowning
Louvre on his way to lodgings far over on
the left bank of the Seine, through narrow,
winding streets. The picture obligingly
took them along the very street where
Marcy had lived, and with his strong little
grasp on her hand he would keep her in-
formed in broken whispers. They didn’t see
the house he had lodged in, and Marcy
gulped curiously when they left that street.
Jane thought it queer that he should have
passed the Louvre almost daily. She had
never imagined Marcy being so closely in-
volved with history.

But the pictures were not all thrice-told
fairy tales and shows of the Old World.
There would be swift glimpses of contempo-
rary life in their own country that Jane
often found as piquing as foreign travel or
exploration in savage lands. It was a relief
to know that people in that outside world
weren’t all either heroes or scoundrels con-
stantly foiling or being foiled in one never-
ending intrigue.

Many of them, it seemed, followed un-
dramatic but estimable occupations that
were sometimes picturesque. They sanely
harvested wheat or adventurously caught
fish or made glassware or greeted dignitaries
at railway stations.

It was on a night when Seth Hacker sat
with Jane that the vast field of turkeys had
been exposed under a caption that caused
Seth to sneer so that he became conspicu-
ous. The turkeys were thrilling—a noble
spread of them, such as Seth had been pa-
tiently visualizing since Jane had known
him; but in the midst of the birds, looking
pardonably proud, was a woman said to be
the Turkey Queen of the West.

Seth had sneered and muttered until
people about began to look at him. It was
some moments before Jane realized that
Seth found a turkey queen unthinkable.
He continued to mutter; there had been
trickery in the picture or falsehood in the
caption.

xii

HE stole from the side door, hooded in

her cloak, feeling mysterious and elated
to be going out alone that way. The com-
pany of Marcy or Seth Hacker would have
spoiled something she was conscious of—a
novel sense of detachment from the old
house and its tepid concerns. She was
leaving behind that tedious perspective of
empty days that had so long crept furtively
by, only to turn and overwhelm her at last.

Down the drive she moved with quick
soft steps and a precautionary glance at
Seth Hacker’s light in his room above the
carriage house, another for Marcy’s dimly
lit windows. She felt the thrill of escape
and rejoiced when the shadows outside the
gate engulfed her. A thought made her
gleeful—she was celebrating alone, and in
one evening, all those birthdays that only
now had taken on a meaning. She was
away from an old house and old people that
had conspired to make her also old. For
the moment, she was free, going to the
picture theater because nothing better of-
fered. It was really enough to be out and
alone.

Being now beyond friendly but un-
welcome pursuit, she walked slowly, smiling
as she came abreast the little darkened
brick church standing so funnily aloof from
life, it seemed to her, gloomily aware of be-
ing neglected. She would, for this secret
festival, as soon be within it, she thought,
as at the picture theater; but of course it
would be locked. She smiled again as she
passed its blank front. Marcy had long ago
told her it wasn’t one of the better class
churches, and she had gone there but a few
times as a little girl in search of recreation.

Marcy had insisted that the building was
atrocious, nothing in which he could suit-
ably worship his Creator. It simply
couldn’t be managed in so ugly a box. He

THE SATURDAY

had shown her a volume of etched ca-
thedrals, giving her the impression that only
in ornate structures of this character could
the Creator of Tedmons—and, presumably,
of Starbirds—be fittingly acknowledged.
Mere brick boxes supporting viciously angu-
lar belfries of timber would suffice only
lesser folk whose creation had demanded no
pains.

For many years Jane had felt a con-
descending pity for the poor little edifice
and the people who had been made not to
be offended by its architectural shortcom-
ings. Marcy had conceded religion to be an
essential in human life; but to attend a
church you didn’t like the looks of was sub-
mitting to herd prejudice, and therefore
injurious to the soul.

Jane had kept her soul unflawed with her
mentor’s, but now she thought, ‘ Poor old
Marcy!” and clicked her tongue, pitying,
against helpful upper teeth. For a moment
she almost wished she had brought him
with her; perhaps more of his old haunts
would be shown that night, or a cathedral
in which even Marcy might have bowed
with at least the humility proper to a Ted-
mon. But this weakness passed before the
lighted portal began to beckon her. Very
definitely she wanted no one with her, and
she hoped to sit far from anyone who might
be moved to talk. Tonight was her chance
to see herself removed from the old life, and
she wanted nothing to remind her that she
really wasn’t.

In the slow thin stream of people that
drained through the lighted doorway she
observed Sam Slater and his wife. They
loitered outside to study the poster and
Jane paused in the shadow of a doorway
across the street, glad of the dull cloak that
covered her. She enjoyed this bit of stealth,
hiding from Maurine Slater whom, coim-
monly, she would have rushed to greet.
But tonight Maurine wouldn’t do at all,
with her loud-whispered comments on the
frocks that would be shown.

It was these chiefly that excited Maurine
in picture plays. As to their drama, save
for a shortening of breath at tense moments,
she dismissed it with the invariable remark,
“Don’t it beat all, in every single picture
you see, how one thing leads to another!”
She said this often, the frequency of its
repetition denoting the warmth of her ap-
proval. She liked most of the pictures,
finding few, indeed, in which one thing
didn’t lead to another.

The Slaters went in, but Jane still waited.
Maurine would be sure to spy her in the
crowd and point cordially to the nearest
vacant chair. She followed only when she
saw the lights die through the open door,
and found a seat in a vacant row safely
remote from talk that would disturb her
newly prized solitude. She liked Maurine
Slater; but there were so many things to-
night she couldn't tell her and did wish to
tell herself—chiefly that, in some deep re-
cess of her mind, she knew she was entering
on a new life, away from old people, away
from her old, tame self.

Her first thought as she found her seat
was that she was the only young person
there. The crowd was made up of children
and very old people. Those in between had
already “hit the grade.” Jane recalled the
local phrase. Sarah Tedmon had hit the
grade. So could another Tedmon, she re-
flected, with a sudden plunge of her heart.

She hadn’t so definitely let herself think
this before she noted that sharp alignment
of the crowd. Now she played with the
thought, imagining some immense hidden
store of silver door knobs back in the old
house.

The projecting machine had begun to
whir through its news reel and Jane was
relieved to note that Marcy wasn’t missing
anything that would move him. There was
the finish of a boat race, a confusing blur of
baseball players, the exposure of certain
factory secrets relating to preserved fruit,
none of which excited Jane; though these
were followed by views of an entirely satis-
factory railway wreck which showed that
trains weren’t the invulnerable things she
had passively considered them.

EVENING POST

A comedy ensued, and she enjoyed the
antics of a droll who was chased through
the crowded streets of a great city for a
crime he hadn’t meant to commit, and had
the narrowest escapes from instant death |
in front of street cars and automobiles. She |
was not wholly attentive to this, however,
preferring to anticipate what the poster |
outside had promised—Sumner Gale, Amer- |
ica’s Screen Favorite, in a Gripping Drama |
of Today— The Love Route.

She was glad she could see Sumner Gale
on this night that she felt was somehow
more than other nights. She had seen him
before and had never failed to rejoice in his
triumphs over fate and the enemies who,
for one reason or another, sought his ruin.
In his quiet moments, his handsome fea-
tures in repose, he seemed to express mod-
est, whimsical doubts of his prowess in the
conflict never far off; but at the crisis his
perfect face grew stern and taut and all
afire with high resolve. He might merely
ride a winning horse to victory—the jockey |
having been drugged by his enemies—or he |
might invade a water-front dive and single- |
handed best a band of burly cutthroats; but
always he became stern, with his fighting
chin lifted.

With helpless women and children, he |
was again whimsical in his unvarying gen- |
tleness; but with women aot helpless, his |
slow, conquering smile wrought a havoc to |
which he was often playfully indifferent, as
with the hollow-hearted society girl, beau- |
tiful but selfish, or the sultry-eyed adven-
turess whose burning glances under the |
beautiful fall of her lids were vainly pro-
longed for him.

Even Marcy Tedmon had not been in-
sensible to the pictured charm of Sumner
Gale, conceding him to be a winsome whelp.

The drama began and Jane forgot the
bare, whitewashed walls of the old Starbird
and Tedmon Bank, held wholly by this life
in another world which she was magically
permitted to overlook. Sumner Gale was |
now Ralph Hardwell, only son of old John
Hardwell, the great railroad magnate, a
multimillionaire with an iron will. The son
fell into evil ways, doing it attractively,
Jane considered, mostly out-of-doors, in
company with beautiful young women in
what Maurine Slater called sports apparel.
There were, to be sure, evenings at the |

gaming table, where he lost immense sums, |
and other evenings in vast and splendid
restaurants, where he lavishly entertained,
so the screen disclosed, ‘‘the fairest orna- |
ments of Gotham’s gilded fast set.”
Jane felt cheated at the swift curtailment |
of these evenings; she wished to see more |
of the dancing and to study at greater |
leisure the frocks worn by the lovely young |
ladies. She had no doubt they belonged to
a fast set, because they all smoked ciga- |
rettes; but fhey were worth looking at.
Always, after these evenings, Ralph Hard-
well awoke whimsically at the call of his |
graven-faced valet, who very plainly wor- |
shiped the boy despite his mien of severe
disapproval. Jane beheld a great deal of his
bath and quite all of his breakfast, after |
which she saw him arrayed in fair garments |
for a call upon his fiancée, Miss Maude |
Delancy-Rivington. Jane disliked this girl
at once, for all her high-bred distinction and
blond hair; nor did it seem to her that Ralph
Hardwell was irrevocably enamored of her. |
It was no surprise then, and a hearty |
relief, when Miss Delancy-Rivington broke |
the engagement the day Ralph’s father cast |
him off because of his idleness and spend-
thrift habits. The gruff old multimillionaire
had his secretary write Ralph a check for
five thousand dollars and ordered him to
“fish, cut bait or go ashore.”” Whereupon
Ralph tore the check up, flung its pieces in
the face of the shocked secretary and
walked slowly from the sumptuous office
with a look of whimsical sadness, appearing
later at the magnificent home of his fiancée,
where his father’s order was, in effect, re-
peated.
Jane especially noted that Miss Delancy- |
Rivington didn’t even wait to learn that
Ralph had torn up the check for five thou- |
sand dollars, which seemed to be a great

No matter what you weigh in
pounds, there’s a way in under-
wear to give you the ease and
comfort you demand.
way is the

That

HATCHWAY
NO-BUTTON

UNION SUIT

The buttonless Hatchway is
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In fact you'll wonder why union

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when dressing, the Hatchway is
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HATCHWAY is made to please every taste.
To suit every pecketbook. Medium or
heavy, in cotton, wool, worsted or mercer
ized fabrics. Most good dealers sell
HATCHWAY UNION SUITS. But if you
have the slightest difficulty getting exaciiy

| what you want, we will gladly see that you

are supplied, delivery free, anywhere in
the United States.

Men’s Suits
$2.00; $2.50; $3.00; $4.00; $5.00; $6.00
Boys’ Suits
Ages 6 to 16 only—$1.50; $2.00

| West of the Rockies 25 cents per garment

should be added to the above prices.

In ordering, please write, stating size and
enclosing check or money order, direct to
our mill at Albany. A beautiful catalogue il-
lustrating the complete line of HATCH WAY
UNION SUITS in both winter and summer
weights sent free on request.

DEALERS
Write us for samples and swatches if you are
interested in stocking Hatchway Union Suits,
or ask to have our representative call, In cer
tain localities exclusive agencies are open to
the right kind of merchant.

FULD & HATCH KNITTING CO.
Albany New York

Woods Underwear Co., Lid., Toronto, Canada,
Licensed Manufacturers of these lines for Canada.

g If One of

These Occupations
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For You:

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Teacher
Stenographer
Bookkeeper
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In Your Spare Time

N all these occupations,

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Clip and Mail Today

ae n> GaP GHD A GUD GED OUP GD 2uED GED GD GED euD ae oo
The Curtis Publishing Company

B6@ Independence Square
Philadelphia, Peansylvania

I have checked the occupation which is mine.
Now please teli me all about your offer. 1-—
2—3~-4—5—-6—7—8—9—10— 11. (If
your occupation ts not listed, indicate it here

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Name
Street
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Staite

THE SATURDAY

' deal of money. Ralph merely told her that

his father had cast him off with a pittance,
| and theselfish society girl found this enough.
| Ralph was again whimsical of face when
| the Delancy-Rivington butler came, almost
| with a frown, to show him out; but there
was no sadness in this expression. It was
whimsical but determined, and not wholly
uncheerful. Jane had seen enough picture
plays to be certain that this affair was
definitely over, and she was heartily glad of
it. She settled more easily into her chair,
knowing that throughout the remainder of
the picture nothing unpleasant would seri-
ously menace Ralph Hardwell. And soon
she was aware that she watched this drama
with sensations even more novel than the
feeling of sudden detachment from the old
life that had brought her out alone.

Always before, she had felt that the life
portrayed in pictures and those portraying
it were not of the world she knew. Never
had it seemed to her that mere onlookers
like herself could tread the same earth. But
tonight she was aware of little shocks of
reality. She was watching real people in
real settings. The story they were telling
was still undoubtedly a fairy story that
never could happen, but all in a moment
she had been brought close to them; they
were people like herself. And more of
| them, in exciting numbers, were just across
| the near barrier of hills that had so long
| been the limit of her insipid little world;
not actors in picture plays, but people more
importantly living a life that didn’t have to
be pretended, a great, spacious, glamorous,
filling life that could be richer than any
pretense.

Her eyes followed the drama on the
screen, but in her suddenly lifted mind she
saw pictures of shining turrets and golden
walls in which great doors were invitingly
open. When her own pictures grew too ex-
travagant, she would steady herself with a
shrug or an under lip caught between re-
minding teeth. She mustn’t, at her age, be
silly. Turrets and shining walls were silly,
| beyond adoubt. Yet the life was there, just
| over a few hills; and it did call her.

She knew perfectly now what Sarah Ted-
mon saw when she said a place was waiting
for her. And with a sudden pang, she
clearly knew what Marcy Tedmon had felt

| when he saw Italy. That had been cruel,
| like letting the unwilling dead come to life
| fora moment. She wondered Marcy hadn’t
| been more of a wasp.

For moments she kept so intently to her
| own visions that the progress of Ralph
| Hardwell would seem queerly intermittent.
| Ralph, the pampered son of wealth, was

incongruously revealed as “‘a common la-
| borer” in the Far West, on “a small but
| important railroad.”’ She saw him in rough
clothes with a shovel, one of a section gang,
but happily on the end where he could be
conveniently photographed, pausing to wipe
honest sweat from his brow and shake back
profuse curling locks.

Then he seemed to save a passenger train
from wreck, though Jane wasn't sure how
he managed it; and this brought him to the
notice of the road’s president, who lived in
a modest white house near the station with
his motherless daughter, a beautiful young
| girl called Gypsy. After that, Ralph was
promoted to be an engineer and spent a
great deal of time running a locomotive
back and forth before the station, where he
would often stop to chat with Gypsy and
sometimes give her a ride.

Within a few days he became an assistant
superintendent of the small but important
railroad because of his efficiency in handling
strikers when they threatened to destroy
the property. By this time the aged presi-
dent of the road had come to rely upon
Ralph, confiding to him that their small
road, the C. & K., was wanted to complete
a merger that would swallow it up, the
power back of this infamous plot being
none other than old John Hardwell, the
| great multimillionaire railroad magnate.

Ralph Hardwell, who had smothered his
| identity under the name of John Jones, was

greatly affected by this news, and clasping
the hand of the elderly president, swore

EVENING POST

that he was in the fight to stay. He was
then made general manager of the C. & K.
and went to live in the modest white house
of the president across from the railway
station, where it at once became apparent
that between him and the president’s lovely
daughter, Gypsy—-who loved railroading
and spent the most of her time around the
station in a short skirt and tam o’ shanter—
a friendship had formed that promised to
ripen into something deeper and finer. Jane
was glad to observe this, because Gypsy
was far preferable, as a mate for Ralph, to
the cold-eyed New York society girl who
had once infatuated him.

After this happy assurance, Jane became
even less watchful of the drama. She did
note with glee that old John Hardwell, back
in his sumptuous New York office, began to
realize that a master mind was balking his
nefarious merger that would swallow the
C. & K., but she was uncertain just how
this was achieved by Ralph. A great many
papers were filed by both sides, but the new
general manager of the C. & K. always filed
his first.

This happened so often that John Hard-
well at last said, “I must face this secret
enemy,” and went West in his private car
with a dozen or so of Ralph’s former light-
minded associates in sports apparel, in-
cluding Miss Delancy-Rivington, still the
same haughty, cold-eyed society girl, caring
nothing for true worth.

Jane, paying closer attention after that,
was able to see that Ralph foiled his father
by stealing the locomotive from his private
car beside the station—with the valuable
help of little Gypsy—and racing off into the
night to file some more papers that seemed
forever to insure the independence of the
C. & K. The picture showed the multi-
millionaire cursing his plight, and also the
racing locomotive, Gypsy at the throttle
and Ralph shoveling coal, as they rocked at
a mad pace over a road bed that plainly
needed a lot of work done on it.

But Ralph triumphed, and returned the
next day, a0 that John Hardwell could meet
the master mind that had outwitted him.
Father and son met on the station platform,
and old John Hardwell handsomely said,
“Tricked by my own son, by gad! I shall
take my medicine, but you must come back
to your rightful place in my office, where
there is a man’s work to do.”

Miss Delancy-Rivington was prominent
in the group of New York society favorites
who listened to this speech, and Jane ob-
served that her cold eyes surveyed Ralph
with reviving interest; but she was in no
doubt as to Ralph’s course. With the old
whimsical humor he turned significantly to
the elderly president of the C. & K., then
even more significantly to his daughter
Gypsy, who had a smudge of coal dust on
her cheek, and said very simply, “No,
father; my life work is here in God’s coun-
try, where I have found myself.”

Miss Delancy-Rivington sneered at this,
but it could be seen that gruff old John
Hardwell was proud of the son he had once
so lightly cast off. After the palatial pri-
vate car had gone, Ralph and Gypsy entered
the station for a moment; and when they
returned, the elderly president of the road
burst into fond and hearty laughter, for
Ralph’s more than ever whimsical face was
now smudged with coal dust even as little
Gypsy’s, and Jane knew that the Love
Route had been traveled.

She was quickly outside, wishing to evade
Maurine Slater’s conclusions about the pic-
ture and all contacts reminding her that she
was still a part of Union Hill. The fairy
tale she had seen diffused itself over her
own picture that she had no longer con-
sciously to summon—the picture of herself
not a part of the old life, but one of those
people beyond the hills who wore sports ap-
parel and to whom wondrous things hap-
pened casually. As she walked back to the
old house, her step was light and she laughed
often to herself, reviewing her day from
that queer moment of illumination in the
garden.

Beyond question it had been a day of de-
cisive significance. She wasn’t old—merely

October 17,1925

not too young. Life was at that moment
impatiently awaiting her with delectable
surprises.

She awoke the next morning, at first with
her usual dull routine running unsummoned
through her mind. Then under this, her
head still on the pillow, she began to feel
that pulsing rapture of the night before.
Something new and good was true, even if
nothing tangible had happened. She felt it
through all her relaxed being. She raised
on an elbow to regard the new frock care-
fully disposed on a chair across the room.
It made her think for a moment of Wiley’s
clothes he had kept so long waiting for him.

But the shadow swiftly passed. She
wasn’t like Wiley. She turned in the bed,
flexing her body triumphantly, rejoicing in
the quickened life that flooded it. Then she
raised again to stare at the frock, seeing
herself in it in some far-off place among
people so young that things still happened
to them—where things could still happen
to her. The dress seemed to her to be im-
patient; she thought of Sarah Tedmon with
her joyous inspiration about door knobs.
There must somehow be the equivalent of
silver knobs in that old house—something
with which she might file her bars.

She dressed with little grim mutterings.
She wasn’t chained to her bed like Wiley,
nor helpless like Marcy, though even futile
Marcy had gone out once and found
money—more than enough money to blast
a way through that mountain barrier she
was now hating.

Fully accoutered—taking more than the
usual time with her hair, noting that a day
had seemed to give its pale hue a warmer
tinge, though she knew this must have been
done by the years—she went out, uplifted,
to meet the day. And the day proved to be,
on its surface, merely one of the old days, of
the sort that crept sluggishly by to blend
drably with its fellows.

But she knew the surface to be deceiving;
beneath it ran a current rich with wonders
it was bearing down to her from a hidden
source. She put on the cherry-colored silk
again that night-—already the long skirts of
her other gowns'locked absurd—but once
more pleaded headache when Marcy would
have read, and spent the evening with her
own new visions, stimulating these by a
device of which she felt half ashamed.

This was nothing less than to take a pack
of cards to her room and tell her own for-
tune. She distrusted her first promising
layout; for so long a time she had told for
Cousin Wiley fortunes that simply had to
come out right. But she challenged the
future again, recalling her ancient lore,
reading no false values for an invalid’s
cheer; and even with this rigid honesty,
discovered that she would presently go a
long journey, find wealth at the end and—
there it indubitably was— meet a dark man
who was to influence her whole life.

Again she dared the hazard, and after a
shuffling beyond cavil, the cards persisted
in promising journey, wealth and the fate-
ful man. She dreamed above this con-
firmation, visioning unconsciously the dark
beauty of Sumner Gale, his mouth whimsi-
cal with humor, his eyes yearning upon her
above the slow compelling smile.

She caught herself there and murmured
“Oh, my!” in shocked dismay. The cards
might truly enough predict a dark man to
become involved with her portentously;
but Sumner Gale! That was absurd. She
laughed at herself. This was still the house
of make-believe, and she had become a
victim, like Wiley, of delusive fantasies; or
like Seth Hacker, believing himself to be
the predestined turkey king of the West.

She mustn’t let herself make-believe.
She must keep only to what she knew—
that something would happen, something
shining. She began to study her hands, re-
calling that the hands of Miss Delancy-
Rivington had been slenderly exquisite,
especially when she held up the long jeweled
holder containing her cigarette. Jane was
pretty certain this girl had done little gar-
dening of a practical sort, and probably no
laundry work.

(Continued on Page 136)

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

a
f i

Locked out in the rain
—just because of a missing Rey

bag, snug, comfortable, it cannot injure the lining,
it cannot push through the most delicate mesh.

. @ threatening sky. . We
hurried home . . Just as we reached the

door . . the storm broke . . Hastily 1 fumbled for

my keys They were not in my pocket. . I

searched . . Useless . . The rain fell harder .

I climbed through a window.”

‘AN evening stroll .

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THE SATURDAY

(Continued from Page 134)
She got cold cream then and began seri-

| ously to treat her hands. They were not
| badly shaped, Wiley often said. She held
| up a pencil in the delicate manner of Miss

Delancy-Rivington holding her cigarette.
She wondered if she would care to smoke

| cigarettes. The girls in sports apparel

seemed to smoke a great many. She won-
dered, too, if ingenious Maurine Slater
couldn’t manage something in the way of
sports apparel from the still ample stock of
old gowns. And about white sports shoes?
She had never seen these displayed in the
post-office shop window. She treated her
hands a long time, and slept in gloves, oddly
feeling that she had already begun that
golden adventuring “‘up the grade.”

The next night, after another day de-
ceptively dull of surface, she listened to
Marcy read, feeling that she had, for the
time, been enough alone with her agitating
visions. He read of the Corsican’s Hun-
dred Days, and afterward told Jane that
these were positively the most wonderful
hundred days that had ever come to any-
one, the supreme bit of drama in all history;
that they should have come to a man who
won them solely by his impudence was one of
those dazzling ironies that prove the posses-
sion of conscious artistry by a force the keen-
est philosophers considered merely blind.

But Jane was suddenly illuminated about
Napoleon. His impudence she admitted;
doubtless it was impudent for anyone to
plan or even to hope for a change of cir-
cumstances that seemed unalterable; but—
‘He believed in his star,”’ she excitedly told
Marcy; “and that’s why he had his hun-
dred days. If he hadn’t been sure he was
going to have them—sure in his own mind-
he wouldn’t have had any days at all.” All
at once she was drawing a helpful parallel.

“Of course, you're right in a way,”

| Marcy conceded. “It’s one thing to be im-
| pudent, and quite another to believe in your

| did.

| her cheeks told him
| they did.

| chance”

| crackle dryly
| “thinking you be-

| your

impudence as this little vulgarian always
We must credit him with that.”
Jane was seeing through the mountains.
“‘Anyoneimpudent enough can havea hun-
dred days— if they only believe it,’’ she said.
“You sound like a seer,” Marcy replied,
glancing sharply at
her rapt face,

EVENING POST

“No, I’m not.”

“Of course you’re not, because you’re
naturally thinking the hundred days will be
a lot more—as our friend did. You know
what he got at the end.”

“I don’t care,” she said stubbornly.
“He'd rather have had his hundred days
than none. So would I.”

“Yes, yes, that’s understood— perfectly,
perfectly!”” He mused on this. She might
have thought he had forgotten but for the
swift brightening of an occasicnal glance he
shot her. Marcy hadn’t forgotten. He was
interested. At lasi he said, ‘Has anything
especial come about, something that has
perhaps deranged your sense of values? I’m
only trying to understand.”

He was inviting, compelling, her con-
fidence. Never before in all her years with
him had she felt free to talk to Marcy ex-
cept on matters not personal to either of
them. She felt a rush of grateful frankness.

“Oh, Cousin Marcy, I don’t know if I
can tell you, but I'll really try. It’s so
much harder because nothing has happened,
nothing that sticks out, I mean. It seems
just to be me—inside of me ———”’ She
paused, a jumble of words before her eyes
from which she must choose those that
would make her seem not to be merely silly.
“Only something inside of me ———’’

He tried to be helpful.

“But inside, that’s where the very biggest
things take place. Momentous happenings
aren't usually the outside ones that happen
with a lot of noise and knock us off our
pins and have to have something done
about them.”

“Aren't they? I didn’t know. I’ll try to
tell you something; only, every time I
start, the happening spreads out—so thin
till it’s like nothing at all.” She laughed
silently, shrugging. “‘It gets so scared if I
try to tell about it.”

“Very well, let’s have it out anyway.
One day you were sitting quietly, thinking
of nothing important 4

“Oh, my! That’s nearly it; cnly I was
standing quietly; in the garden, it was,
three or four days ago, and I got frightened
at nothing, because all it was—I thought
I'd got very old. Then I found I wasn’t; I

October 17,1925

was only not too young—you said that
yourself. But I felt so different, and I
didn’t want to talk to anyone, so I went
and saw a picture by myself. I still felt
queer, and the picture made me feel more
queer about you and this house and every-
one. Everything keeps on being queer;
and so, you see—that’s how it is.” She
looked at Marcy brightly, begging him to
understand.

“Perhaps I see,” he suggested, but it was
plain to Jane that he didn’t. She must look
for words again.

“Don’t you remember one night at the
picture place how you felt when you saw
Italy, and the bridge in Paris, close to the
Louvre, and the queer old street you used
to live in?”

“Of course!”

“Then you must remember how it made
you feel, making a big want swell up in your
heart.” Marcy bowed assent to this, his
eyes enigmatic. ‘‘ Well, it’s that way I feel;
that wanting is big in me all the time. Only
you, you’d had your—your hundred days,
and I haven't had mine. And it isn’t queer,
my wanting. What is queer is that I keep
knowing I’m going to have them. It’s
simply certain, that’s all. I can’t tell you
how I know it, or how I’m to get them. But
I know I shall get them. So that’s how it is.
Perhaps I explained better this time.”

“‘ Adorably!’’ Marcy beamed with under-
standing. “‘ You want something you were
cheated of.”

“You know what they say in the vil-
lage—I want to go up the grade.”

“And you were frightened that day in
the garden because something warned you
that pretty soon you wouldn’t any longer
want it—even want to want it.’’ He looked
at her again, not beaming now. “Poor
child!”” She knew Marcy hadn't often said
“Poor child!” to anyone in that warm nice
way, yet she protested.

“But I’m not! I’m strong. I'm still
young and wanting. I'll have at least my
hundred days.”

He raised his hands with a familiar elo-
quence, all of futility.

“IT had everything you have. I was
even more avid, because I’d tasted. Yes;
I had everything
but initiative,

“You're positively
delphie, my dear.
Oracles, indeed!”
Jane could feel his
sharp little eyes
that stung like net-
tles and knew that

“ Are you by any
Marcy’s
voice seemed to

lieve staunchly in
own impu-

which is vastly im-
portant. Perhaps
you have that.”
He regarded her
doubtfully.

“T don’t know.”
She shrugged
lightly. “But I
have my star; I
have great faith in
that. You’d
never believe how
bright it is, how
sure I am.”

He looked at her
a long time, his

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eyes slowly soften-
ing. She was com-
pelling his admira-
tion for what he
himself had lacked.

“How you stir
up the past!” he
finally said. “‘Here
I find myself wish-
ing Sarah Tedmon
had left the silver

| dence?”

She wanted to
deny it with a
laugh, but ail she
could do was tosay,
helplessly, “Oh,
Cousin Marcy, Ido,
I do, Ido!” She
turned her confess-
ing eyes upon him
with that.

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“And you’re
planning your hun-
dred days.” His
voice had mel-
lowed; she could
feel an uncharacter-
istic human note
warming in it.
“You're measuring
the leagues from
Eiba to the main-
land.”

“Yes, I am!”
she said swiftly.

“And not caring
what comes after
thehundred days?”

the Off-Shore Istands

knobs for you.”

“Pooh! Door
knobs aren’t every-
thing.”

“You’re so un-
humanly sure,
aren’t you? You
almost make me be-
lieve they may not
be ”

He was like a
timid child hearing
a companion plan
some hazardous
feat.

A View of the Coast of British Columbia Between the Maintand and

(TO BE CONTINUED)

>

aaaranisintasiatt acronis stn ea nm

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

i iat

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bark, shavings, sawdust and the accumu-
lated dust left by millions of wood borers
which have burrowed into the fresh lumber
piled there through many years, the house
stands. Old Abel Mudie built it as he built
the mill. This man was in the days of his
strength one who dominated the imagina-
tion of the viliage, about whom tales were
told; a man of foresight and vigor and in-
telligence, actuated always by a keen and
acid appetite for money. And money
floweé into his hands—and stayed there.
The house ke built in his youth; he would
not in later years have been guilty of such
an expenditure. For it was a large house,
a substantial two-story structure, boasting
on the firet floor not only a front parlor but
also a sitting room. His wife must have
been in part responsible for this effulgence;
but as they grew older together and she
came more and more under the influence of
her husband's powerful personality, as her
life shrank into itself, so did the life of the
big house contract until it focused in one or
twe rcoms, The sitting room was shut up
and seldom used; the front parlor was re-
served for weddings and for funerals. The
kitchen and dining room accommodated
the family and served every need save that
of sleeping. There were no Mudie boys;
but there were three daughters. Emily was
the first to marry; she chose a man named
Burford, who lived in Augusta, Mary mar-
ried Will Marley, of East Harbor, who
later moved to Portland, and ‘Tilda was
left alone with her father, te care for him
and keep his house in order.

To her, when presently he died, he be-
queathed the house, the mill and a propor-
tion of his fortune; to the two other daugh-
tera their share of what remained. And
*Tiida, for some strange reason, chose for
husband Sam Dunnack, a thriftless and in-
consequent man, amiable, lovable, yet with-
out any suggestion of that driving force
which had been so strong in Abel Mudie,
and which he had transmitted almost un-
impaired to his three daughters. Perhaps
"Tilda had had some thought of making
Sem Dunnack into a man more after her
father’s pattern; but she found in him that
strength which is often to be discovered in
weaklings. He was ineradicably kindly and
inconsequent. Everybody liked him—save
his wife and his eldest son. Everybody
liked him, but few could be found to confess
any particular respect for his abilities. He
had hecome submerged in the stronger tide
of character which flowed through his wife's
veins, become an inconaiderable figure in
the family life; and it was only in such
rare moments of passion as that which had
driven Newt from home that he asserted
himself at all. That his son Sam was like
him was, when the two boys were young, a
source of fretful impatience to Mrs. Dun-
nack; but Newt had, even as a boy, all his
grandfather's vigorous and single-minded
energy.

Newt, arriving home this evening in late
summer, found the old mill deserted, the
house closed and apparently lifeless. Dusk
was upon the countryside, but there was not
even a light in the kitchen window. By
the river the mill buildiags sprawled. The
end of the mill which faced the house
was open below, while the upper part was
sheathed in and there were two blank
windows in this triangle formed by the roof
lines. Newt, studying the building ap-
praisingly, had a momentary thought that
the windows were like eyes, the open end of
the shed below like a wide and grinning
mouth. In the dusk the mill assumed a
curiously sentient aspect; and, though he
was not ordinarily an imaginative man, it
seemed to kim to look derisively upon this
his homecoming, to grin at him in a curi-
ously inscrutable and philosophic way.
This fancy of his affected him strongly; he
had difficulty in withcrawing his eyes. The
cessation of motion on the part of Uncle
Jasper’s decrepit horse aroused him; he
realized that their journey was done, and

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

AA MAN OF PLOTS

(Continued from Page 5)

alighted and extracted his bag from beneath
the rear seat, then handed the old man a
dollar and a half.

Uncle Jasper looked at the money doubt-
fully. “Figure it’s wuth more’n that,” he
argued.

“That was what we agreed,” Newt re-
torted.

“I never agreed to anything less’n two
dollars,” the ancient persisted feebly. ‘ And
I ain’t had any supper. Long drive back to
town.”

“There’s no light here,’ Newt pointed
out. “Seems like there ain’t anybody at
home, so I guess there won't be anything to
eat here. You better get you something
when you go past the store.”

“ Mighty little for driving ten miles,” the
old man grumbled; and Newt laughed
good-naturedly.

“More’n you usually make in a day, I
guess,”’ he retorted.

The other, still grumbling, put the money
in his pocket. ‘Guess you take after your
grandfather,” he said sourly as he wheeled
his horse; and Newt laughed again, curi-
ously inflated by this tribute. |

He was in vast good humor as he watched
the carriage move slowly away along the
road toward the village. As he picked up
his bag and turned toward the house the
mil! caught his eye once more; and again
he had that curious impression of a con-
scious and whimsically malignant intelli-
gence looking out at him from the blank
windows, dark blotches upon the graying
field of the unpainted sheathing. He was
giad to turn his back and go up the rising
ground toward the house. As he ap-
proached, his mother opened the kitchen
door and looked at him silently, Beyond
her he saw his Aunt Emily Burford, sitting
by asmall table huddled against the window
to catch the fading light, where dishes and
cups showed the two sisters had been at
supper. His mother, he thought, was never
one to waste oil by lighting a lamp while
deylight served.

He said amiably, “ Well, hello, ma,” and
went into the kitchen, and she shut the
door behind him. “Hello, Aunt Emily.”

His mother, he saw at once, had aged
more than he expected. Her hair had been
merely sprinkled with gray; it was now al-
most as white as snow, and there was great
weariness in her eyes. As he laid aside his
hat and bag she said in a low tone, “I won-
dered if you wouldn’t be home, when you
heard about pa.”

** Meant tolet you know,” hesaid heartily.
“But I been mighty busy and no time to
write, and I couldn’t get away till now.”

“Funeral was last Saturday,” she told
him. “I didn’t know as you'd come at all
after that.”

“Well, it looked to me like I was due for
a vacation,”’ he told her. His Aunt Emily
had not risen from her seat at the table by
the window, and listened to their talk with-
out movement or remark. “I didn’t get
any supper in East Harbor,” he announced.

“We didn’t look for you tonight,” his
mother said. “ Probably there’s something.
A cup of tea, anyways.”

He sat down in the chair she had vacated,
and she brought a fresh cup and filled it
from the teapot on the stove. There were
no victuais left on the table; he perceived
on one plate a few crumbs that suggested
the plate had held toast. The little pitcher
which had contained milk wasempty. There
was a small pat of butter, and sugar in the
bowl. He smiled a little, remembering that
his mother had always set a frugal board.

She said uncertainly, “ Aunt Emily and I
just had some toast. We don’t eat much. I
can make some toast for you if the fire
ain’t down.”

“Bread’s as good,”’ he assured her. “And
some milk for the tea.”

‘We take a pint a day from Gay Hunt,”
she explained. ‘We don’t eat hardly any-
thing, except when Sam’s here. He eats
hearty.”

“Where is he?”’ Newt asked, his mouth
full of bread and butter.

“He’s got a little place over at the or-
chard, hesleeps in when he’s working around
there. He’s going to stay over there to-
night.”

“Guess I come by there,”” Newt remarked.
“Tf I’d known he was there.”

“We can telephone to Trask’s and they’ll
tell him you’re here,” his mother explained;
and Newt looked at her in surprise.

“You got a telephone?” he asked. She
shook her head. ‘‘ Where do you telephone
from? Store?”

“It costs a nickel there,’”’ she explained.
“When I have to I telephone from Gay
Hunt’s. Nosense my having a telephone.
Nobody ever wants to talk to me, and I
don’t do much of any talking to folks my-
self, and Gay has to have a telephone any-
way, so I just use his.”

He nodded, finishing his supper. Aunt
Emily rose and began to clear away the few
dishes and prepare to wash them.

“Aunt Em come for the funeral?” he
asked.

Mrs. Dunnack glanced toward Aunt
Emily uncertainly. ‘She come here to live
with me after her boy died,” she explained
in a lower tone.

“Died, did he?”” Newt echoed, studying
the other woman. She was gaunt and silent
and forbidding, her hair still strongly black
and her eyes somber. ‘‘I remember he was
always kind of pindling,” he commented.
“What was the matter with him?”

“Consumption,” his mother explained.
“He was ailing for a long time.”

Newt, having finished eating, rose and
moved about the kitchen, appraising the
place with his eyes. Darkness had fallen, a
lamp was lighted. He saw the remembered
chairs and table, the familiar wall paper a
little searred here and there where a chair-
back had seratched it, and the picture
of his Grandfather Mudie which had for-
merly hung in the sitting room, now on the
wall opposite the door. Once or twice he
discovered that his mother was watching
him with level eyes; and he was, as he
moved to and fro, more and more conscious
of this scrutiny. There was a quality in her
which he could not at once define; he re-
membered her as strong and assured and
assertive, dominating his father as she had
dominated them all. But there was now
something definitely uncertain about her, as
though, thus late in life, she was suspect-
ing that the very foundations of her exist-
ence were of doubtful solidity.

He looked into the dining room, but the
lamp in the kitchen shed no light that far,
and he returned to the kitchen to wait while
Aunt Em and his mother put away the
dishes. Then they all went into the dining
room and sat about the table there, his
mother composed and still in her chair,
his aunt knitting fretfully with gnarled and
knotty fingers.

They seemed to wait for him to speak;
and he asked, “How’s Aunt Mary? She
come to the funeral?”’

His mother nodded. ‘She come, but she
went right back.”

“Uncle Will come along with her?”
Newt inquired.

His mother shook her head.
to drinking heavy,’’ she explained.
said she didn’t want to fetch him.”

Newt chuckled. ‘Didn’t know he was
that way,” he remarked.

“He wan't, till this last few years.”

The young man reverted to the question
of his brother. “‘Want to go telephone to
Sam? Or will he come home tomorrow any-
way?”

“TI better telephone,” his mother decided.
“He said he’d stay over there till Monday.
He’s coming back to chore around here for
a while then.” She rose and drew a shawl
over her head and went out through the
kitchen. Newt was left with Aunt Emily,
who sat in the stony silence which seemed
her habit, knitting steadily, the little clicks

“He’s took
“She

October 17,1925

of her needles the only sound in the still
room.

Newt, after a time, asked incuriously,
“Pa sick long?”

“He ailed for a year,” his aunt replied.
“He was a care.” She seemed to dismiss
the dead man with this phrase, and a con-
siderable silence followed.

“Sam as much like him as he used to be?”
Newt inquired at last, faint scorn in his
tone.

“Sam don’t change any,” Aunt Em told
him, and again her tone had that finality
which seemed to put a period to the con-
versation.

“TI heard Sam did right well with the
orchard last year,”” Newt suggested, when
he could no longer endure the silence.

“Tt wan’t his doing. Apples was high,”
Aunt Emily rejoined.

“T guess Sam didn’t have much to do
with it, at that,” he agreed, and he was re-
lieved when his mother came in through the
kitchen door and took off her shawl. “Get
hold of him, did you?” Newt inquired.

“T talked to Linda Trask,”’ she explained.
“She said she'd tell him if she saw him. She
said she saw you drive by. She’ll see him.”

Newt caught the meaning in her tone and
smiled. ‘‘Sam’s girl, is she?” he asked.

“He’s there a good deal,” his mother as-
sented mildly.

“T saw her as I come by,” Newt said,
and added good-naturedly, ‘‘Guess she’s
got too much sense to set store by Sam.”

“Folks like Sam,”’ his mother remarked
noncommittally. ‘“‘He’s always helping
around.”

“Folks liked pa,”” Newt remarked. “But
he didn’t get anywhere by that. Shouldn’t
think you’d let Sam run the orchard. Don’t
know enough for it, does he?”

“Your pa give him the orchard, two
years gone,” his mother told him. “Up
and give it to him.”

Newt exclaimed impatiently, “Gave it to
him? He didn’t have any right to do that.
I’m older than Sam.”

“Well, he did, all on paper,” she assured
him.

“What'd he go to do that for?”

She looked away from him, answered in
even tones, “Why, he said if he waited till
he died you’d come home and get it away
from Sam, so he give it to him to begin
with.”

Newt frowned, then laughed. ‘Guess pa
knew Sam didn’t have sense enough to take
care of anything,’”’ he commented.

“Folks take advantage of Sam,” she
agreed, a suggestion of bewilderment in her
tones. ‘‘Guess he knows it, but he don’t
seem to mind. I kind of put on him myself,
sometimes.”

Newt nodded, watching her.
running the mill?” he asked.

“It kind of runs itself,” she replied.
“Herb Faller runs it, as much as anybody.
There ain’t the money in it there was.”

“T’ll straighten that out,’’ Newt told her.

She looked at him curiously, asked in
even tones, “Don’t you have to go back?”

“T fixed it to stay long as you needed
me,” he replied.

“We can get along the way we have,”
she suggested.

He laughed reassuringly.
man that knows something.
spell.”

“We live plain,” she reminded him.

“I’m sensible,” he assured her, and upon
this the conversation haited, and for a con-
siderable time they sat in a silence broken
only by the click of Aunt Em’s needles, and
the faint creak of his mother’s rocker as she
swayed back and forth, her arms tightly
folded across her bosom, her eyes occasion-
ally turning to her son.

Once he asked, “Pa didn’t leave any-
thing, did he?”

“He give Sam the orchard beforehand,”
she reminded him. “That’s all he ever had
to leave anybody.”

(Continued on Page 143)

“oe Who’s

“You need a
I'll stay a

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ja0 s0nuR
‘

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

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140 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST October 17,1925

Se ERR CSR Qh aS a SATE SRNL AEA SSN ST SRA NNT ARTO
Oo Ff TH E inTrTER WOVEN STOCKING COMPANY
DD WSR AN MS SE AARP RS IR RMON SERRE ATI SE NA TAT EI A CE EN, SEE EN SOL a ICSE AMIS RN AIOE ETRE ST RSLS

Kunter

To. « Reet

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THE- SATURDAY EVENING POST

ER

MANUFACTURER OF MEN’S HOSIERY — IN THE

Interwove,
n
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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST October i7, 1925

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~ rer ee

(Continued from Page 138)

“He was a load on you,” he remarked
shrewdly. ‘Figure you’re as well pleased
to be shut of him.”

“I kind of miss him, some days,” she
confessed. ‘“‘He was an easy man.” And
fell silent again. Aunt Em finished a sock
and folded up her knitting; and Mrs. Dun-
nack observed the movement and rose.
“There ain’t any use in burning oil just to
set by,”’ she remarked. “I'll make up your
bed.”

When they went upstairs Newt saw that
his mother and Aunt Em shared the big
front room. His own bed his mother pre-
pared in the small rear room that had been
his when he was at home. After she left
him he undressed absent-mindedly and blew
out his lamp. He had, he reflected, found
just about the state of things he might have
expected. The fact that the orchard had
been given outright to Sam was a compli-
cation; but he was confident of his ability
to talk his simple-minded brother into a
reasonable view of that transaction. After
all, they were entitled to share alike in the
estate their father had left behind him.
Everything he had seen convinced him
that his mother lived with the frugality
which had always been her habit. Having
Aunt Em here might be thought an extrava-
gance; he told himself she would have to
go. But with this exception he saw no signs
of waste about the household. This pleased
the thrifty young man.

When he had blown out the lamp he
opened his window. It looked out upon the
old mill. The moon had risen, and he could
see the sprawling outlines of the structure;
and he had again that sense of a personality
contained in the decaying building. During
his boyhood it had been a busy place, full of
the energy which he had always associated
with his conception of his grandfather; but
now the roof had sagged lazily, and a corner
post was out of line here and there. His
father had run it for years; he thought con-
descendingly that the mill had acquired
some of his father’s characteristics of sprawl-
ing indolence and lazy ease.

It would be, he decided, pleasant and
profitable to whip some life into the thing
again; and he said, half aloud, “I'll make
you sit up and hustle some.”

The mill in the moonlight made no reply;
but the gaping end of the shed was like a
grinning mouth turned toward him. An
imaginative person might have thought its
very silence mocked the young man.

Iv

HEN Newt waked in the morning he

heard his mother already stirring in
the kitchen, and he dressed and went down-
stairs. She had the fire going in the stove,
and a kettle of water heating, and she was
mixing biscuits. Upon his entrance she
looked ‘2p at him doubtfully; and to his
genial morning greeting she returned a
slight nod.

He said briskly, “‘ Going to be a hot day.”

She made no comment upon this pre-
diction; bat after a moment she said, as
though addressing a third person, “We
ain’t used to eating much of any breakfast.
I guess a man’d want more.”

“‘Coffee’s pretty near all I want,” he as-
sured her. “I ain’t one to eat. You won't
have to think about me any more’n if I was
Aunt Em.”

She seemed vaguely relieved. “I thought
I’d bake up a batch of biscuits if the oven
come up,” she told him. “‘The stove don’t
work so good. It’s kind of aggravating, of
a morning, sometimes.”

He came and looked at the stove with an
interested eye; and by the familiar crack
across one of the disused stove lids he knew
it was the one that had been in this same
kitchen from his earliest recollection.

“Grates burned out, have they?”

“T watch out for them,” she told him;
and she added in a curiously humble tone,
“I’ve cooked on that stove since ma died;
and she’d had it before then.”

“That’s one thing about a stove,” he
agreed approvingly. ‘They don’t wear
out.”

THE SATURDAY

He turned away across the kitchen, mov-
ing indolently to and fro, surveying his sur-
roundings. From the window he could look
down toward the mill. It would be idle
today, since this was Sunday morning. In
the light of day the structure appeared to
him even more dilapidated than it had
seemed the night before; and he wondered
if the working parts were in good repair,
and thought that he would have to take
this business in hand.

By this thought he was reminded of an-
other of his determinations; and he looked
into the hall toward the stairs, and came
back to stand near his mother before he
spoke in a low tone.

““Where’s Aunt Em?” he asked.

“She can’t get up easy of a morning till
the sun comes up,” his mother replied.
“She’s got a kind of sciatica, makes her
slow to move.”

He nodded, and casually remarked, “ You
won’t need her here, now I’m home to keep
you company.”

Mrs. Dunnack gave him a faint look from
beneath her lowered brows as she set the
cut dough that would be biscuits in the
baking pan. “Em ain’t got a soul at home,”
she remarked.

“Well, she don’t expect you to take care
of her, does she?”’ he inquired.

**She’s been kind of company,” his mother
replied uncertainly.

“Far as I can see, she don’t talk any more
than she ever did. Just sits around and
scowls, That kind of company don’t do you
any good,” Newt urged.

“She says she suffers,”” Mrs. Dunnack
reminded him.

“Well, we can’t have her sick on our
hands,” he reminded her assuredly. ‘She
ought to know that. Or else she ought to
pay room and keep. She’s got her share of
grampa’s money, ain't she?”

“Dave never done any good,” his mother
replied. “I expect Em had to use some of
the interest, anyways.”

“T’ll talk to her,”” Newt promised. “She'll
see the sense of it. She sure ought to pay
board if she’s going to stay here. Grampa
left the house to you, and he made it up to
her, so it’s your house and all.”

“T’ll be glad to have her here after you go
back,”” Mrs. Dunnack remarked.

And Newt said good-naturedly, “ Well,
there’s a good deal to do here. I may not
go back foraspell. Get things straightened
out some first.”

There was a suggestion of dread in her
tone as she replied, “‘ You mean you might
stay a week maybe?”

He moved his hand in a large gesture.
“Stay all winter if you need me.”

They heard Aunt Emily’s step as she
came slowly down the stairs; and he fell
silent while she approached the kitchen
through the hall. In the kitchen, without
speaking, she went near the stove and stood
with her side almost touching it, absorbing
the grateful warmth of the fire.

Newt said affably, “ Moraing, Aunt Em!"

She nodded in silent reply.

Sam Dunnack, Newt’s brother, arrived a
little time after they were through break-
fast, driving into the yard and stabling his
horse before he came up to the house. Newt
watched him from the kitchen window,
withdrawing a little so that his scrutiny
might not be discovered by Sam. Sam was,
he saw, the same as he had been ten years
before; just a little thicker across the shoul-
ders and chest. He was a tall young fellow
with a pleasant, amiable face and fair hair
of the color of straw faintly tinted copper
by the sun. His face was leather brown,
and his blue eyes were arresting and im-
mediately notable. He came up toward the
house at an easy, shambling gait, and opened
the door and came in; and Newt, who had
drawn back from the window, hailed him
heartily.

“Well, Sam, how are you?”

Sam grinned and took Newt's extended
hand; and he said in slow pleasure, ‘‘ Good,
Newt! Good enough for any man. You
look pretty able your own self.”’

“Never any better,” Newt declared.
“Strong as an ox.”

EVENING POST

“It’s mighty good to see you home,
Newt,”’ Sam declared. “You been away a
long time.”

“Well, pa and me didn’t get along, Sam.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, I know. Pa was
too easy-going for you, Newt. Yo're more
like Grampa Mudie.”

This comparison: always pleased Newt;
he accepted it now with a complacent nod.
“That's what they say,” he agreed. “And

I guess I am more like him than you, Sam. |

You won’t never be anything but a farmer.”

“That’s right,” Sam agreed good-
naturedly. “Farming suits me, and raising
apples.”

Newt thought with condescending amuse-
ment that even Sam recognized his own
limitations.
other’s shoulder in a gesture of fellowship.
“You've got sense enough to know whére
you belong, anyway, Sam.”

“Sure, I know,” Sam assented. He had
been standing near the door, studying Newt
while he talked with him, watching his
brother with friendly eyes. Now he spoke
to the two women. “Morning, ma. Much
obliged for telephoning. How’s the sciatica
this morning, Aunt Em?”

“It don’t change any,” she replied tartly.

“That’s too bad,” he told her. “ Yes, sir,
I bet it bothers you a lot.”

His mother asked, “ You had any break-

He laughed and touched the |

fast? Want I should pour you a cup of |

coffee? There's hot biscuits.”

“No, I had some breakfast at Trask’s,”’ |

he replied. “I'd left the horse in the barn
there. Linda come over this morning and
told me you'd telephoned.”

“Working on the orchard?” Newt asked
shrewdly,

“Killing borers,” Sam told him. “Glad
of an excuse to lay off too. It’s mighty
hard on the knees.”

“They said in East Harbor as how your
apples did well by you last year.”

“Why, yes,” Sam agreed; “yes, they
treated me handsome. An apple tree will
do that, ever’ so often, if you give it a
chance.”

“T’ll drive over there with you after din-
ner and see what the place needs,” Newt
announced. “I guess we can make it do
better, handling it right.”

“Sure,” Sam assented. ‘‘There’s a lot I
don’t know about apple trees, for a fact.”

Newt felt a momentary sense of satis-
faction in the fact that Sam had thus
accepted his own assumption of part owner-
ship in the orchard without debate; but
Mrs. Dunnack said dryly, “That there or-
chard belongs to Sam, Newt. His pa give
it to him outright.”

“Well, Newt can probably tell me some
things,"” Sam told her good-naturedly.
“‘He’s a business man. Glad to have him.”

**T wanted to get here before, time for the
funeral,’’ Newt explained. He thought
scornfully that Sam was as spineless and as
acquiescent as he had always been. “But
it looked to me I might have to stay a spell
and get things going right, so I waited till I
could fix up to be away long as I wanted.”

“T didn’t hardly think you'd get here for
the funeral,” Sam assented; and Newt
looked to see if there was any edge to these
words, but Sam’s countenance was wholly
friendly and amiable.

“T never held any grudge against pa,”
Newt declared. “I'd have come if I could.”

“Sure you would,” Sam agreed. “Well,
I’m right glad you can stay a spell.”

“Pa had let things go,”” Newt reminded
his brother. ‘“‘And ma ain't able to handle
the place the way a man could. I'll bet the
mill can do twice what it’s been doing.’’-

“We've kind of let Herb Faller run it,”
Sam agreed. ‘I had about all I could do.”

“T’ll get Herb straightened out,’’ Newt
promised. He looked toward the window,
moved to the door. ‘Let's you and me go
down and look it over,’”’ he suggested. “Ma
and Aunt Em don’t want us under foot.
Dinner to get and all.”

Sam nodded; and the two brothers went
out into the yard together and down toward
the mill. Newt jerked his head back toward
the house.

(Continued on Page 146)

143

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THE SATURDAY

FLOOR
POLISHING
OUTFIT

a Olé)
J’ —

EVENING POST

October 17, 1923

acaealatelittiss pe.

RY

eg MOC et late oe te .
BOI Oe ae

4
*

This is All You Need to
Keep Your Yloors and Linoleum Like ‘New

*Yes,Mrs. Jones, this Johnson Polishing
Outfit is all you need to keep your
floors and linoleum like new. We rec
ommend it to our customers who have
finished floors and inlaid linoleum. The
Outfit includes a quart of Johnson's

~— Liquid Wax—a Lamb's
wool Mop for applying
it—and a Weighted
Brush for polishing.
Just pour the Liquid
Wax on the Mop and
apply a thin, even coat.
This cleans the floor
and, at the same time,
deposits a protecting
hlm of Wax. A few easy strokes of the
Weighted Brush will quickly bring up
a beautiful, durable polish. It is the
new, easy, modern way to have beau-

tiful waxed floors. It takes only a few
minutes—there is no stooping and
your hands remain as clean and dainty
as before you started.

“Be sure to read the book on Home
Beautifying which goes with the Out-
fit. It is full of valuable ideas on
Interior Wood Finishing.

“As you see, we have a Johnson
Service Department here in our store
and carry a complete line of Johnson's
Artistic Wood Finishes.

“We also have Johnson's Wax Elec
tric Floor Polishers which we rent to
many customers who prefer to polish
their floors electrically. This wonder-
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“Yes, I noticed your Johnson Serv-
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(Canadian Factory: Brantford)

® JOHNSON'S LIQUID WAX

167

(Continued from Page 143)

“How long’s Aunt Em been here?” he
asked.

“Quite a spell, now,” Sam told him. “I’m
away a good deal. Stay overnight at the
orchard. She’s company for ma,”

“She's fixing to be sick on our hands,”
Newt declared. “I told ma this morning
she might as well let Aunt Em go on home.”

“She ain’t got a living soul,’’ Sam pro-
tested mildly. ‘And this here was where
she was brought up and all. Guess she’d
ruther stay here.”

Newt looked at his brother calculatingly.
“T can see she frets ma,”’ he suggested.

“Does she?”

“Ma says she never bothers you about
it; but Aunt Em’s mighty gloomy to have
around.”

“Well, I guess that’s so,” Sam assented;
and Newt saw that Sam was as weak as he
had always been, unstable and indeter-
minate, ready to be talked out of any po-
sition he might even momentarily assume.
The discovery gave him a new assurance;
he decided that within a week he could
dominate them all.

When they reached the mill they paused
and stood side by side while Newt surveyed
the place. The circular saw gleamed in the
shadow against the rear wall of the shed;
and through the cracks in the floor Newt
could see the slope of sifted sawdust slant-
ing down to the water below. Half a dozen
hemlock logs lay between them and the saw,
waiting to be loaded on the carriage. Planks
or slabs were littered about, and at the end
of the shed a pile of sawed lumber was
taking shape. The saw, the pulleys and
machinery seemed in good enough condi-
tion; but the floor was worn and broken,
and daylight came in through crevices in
the rear wall and through chinks in the roof
overhead.

At one side there was an opening framed
with new lumber, and evidences that work
was in progress upon some additional de-
vice, and Newt asked, “What are they
doing there?”

“Fixing to take care of the sawdust,”
Sam explained. “Keep it out of the river.”

“What's the sense of that?”

“Killsthetrout,’’ Sam told him. ‘“ There’s
a lot of trout down below the village and
down past Ghent, in the rips; and if we can
keep the sawdust out they'll do better.”

Newt spat disgustedly. “‘Sounds like one
of your ideas, Sam. Spending money for
fish.”

“Well, I kind of like a mess of trout.”

‘she older brother laughed.

“Sure; that’s the way you are. What
you going to do with the sawdust if it don’t
go into the river? It’ll swamp you, inside
a year.”

“The law says we got to take care of it,”’
Sam suggested good-naturedly.

“Nobody pays any attention to that
law,’’ Newt reminded him. “It ain’t en-
forced unless somebody raises a row around
about it. Anybody been rowing you?”

Sam shook his head. “No; no, there
ain’t.”

“‘Gay Hunt shoots his sawdust into the
river, don’t he? And the rest of them?”’

“Sure.”

Newt iaughed. ‘Guess it’s a good thing
I come home, all right,” he remarked, and
dismissed the subject as though it were
closed. ‘‘I’ll tell Herb to stop that, to-
morrow. Mill busy, is it?”

“Yeah, guess so. All they can do,”

“Good shape, ain’t it?”

“Why, she'll saw up logs,” Sam remarked.
“But the floor’s about gone. Sills are rotten,
and the floor boards are going. You can see
there’s-holes in it all over. Herb stuck his
foot through one the other day.”

“Can't he watch where he’s going?

“He was carrying a log,”” Sam explained,
“T been kind of figuring on a new floor.”

Newt said derisively, ‘‘What’s the mat-
ter? Can't you find no ways to spend your
money?”

“Well, if one of them was to get hurt
they could come back on us,’’ Sam reminded
his brother. ‘Matter of fact, the saw’s
supposed to have a guard, too, I guess.”

9

“You'd make a good lawyer, maybe,”
Newt remarked good-naturedly, “but
you’re no business man.”’

Sam grinned. “I'd just as soon you'd
run the mill,” he agreed. “It don’t interest
me, and maybe you can do better with it,
anyways.”

Newt nodded. ‘ Pa’s let things go pretty
slack,” he commented. “I can see that.
Place ain’t worth what it was ten years ago.
Ma’s aged, too, seems to me.”

“‘ Ain’t so sure of herself as she was,’’ Sam
agreed.

“You don’t have to tell me that,” Newt
replied.

He sat down on one of the logs, and Sam
leaned against a post at the corner of the
shed, and they talked there together, Newt
questioning and Sam replying. There were
times when Newt forgot to dissemble; when
his questions had a naked insistence about
them. But Sam answered him frankly and
good-naturedly. They diseussed the or-
chard, the farm, the mill, all the tangible
property appertaining to the Dunnack
estate; and Newt cross-examined Sam to
discover how much money his mother had
put away, and what her investments were.
Sam said they saved every year; reminded
Newt that they lived simply.

‘Ma don’t set much of.a table,” he re-
marked whimsically. ‘But I eat over at
Trask’s some, so I get along. Me, I like my
victuals.”

“That Luke Trask, ain't it?’’ Newt in-
quired.

Sam nodded. “He has the farm this side
of the orchard,” he explained.

“Saw a girl when I come by there,” Newt
remarked, watching Sam; and at Sam’s
faintly conscious smile Newt grinned to
himself,

“That'd be Linda,” Sam replied.

Now and then an automobile or a team
passed along the road; and the occupants
were apt to look toward the brothers, and
to wave a greeting to Sam. Occasionally
someone shouted a cheerful remark, and
Sam replied in kind; and Newt thought
Sam was like his father, making friends
easily, taking life easily, probably soft as
butter where any matter involving money
was concerned. He liked Sam well enough;
but he could not help feeling a faint con-
tempt for him. The younger man’s qualities
were to Newt’s eyes almost all weaknesses—
weaknesses which he counted upon being
able to turn toaccount when the time should
come. By and by—they were neither of
them conscious of the swift passage of
time—Sam looked toward the house and
saw his mother standing in the kitchen
door watching them. He said, ‘ By George,
guess dinner’s ready,” and he and Newt
went up to the house again.

They found that in honor of the day the
table was spread in the dining room, and
they sat down to the meal prepared —boiled
potatoes, peas, sweet corn, and bits of salt
pork tried out in deep fat and swimming in
this amber essence. Sam ate heartily;
wastefully, Newt thought. For himself,
Newt was content with little, and found no
fault with the frugality of the meal.

“Vegetables are fine,’’ he commented.
“‘Can’t get the like of them in Boston.”

“Garden does right well for Sam,” Mrs.
Dunnack agreed.

As they were finishing she spoke again,
said to Newt: “Aunt Em thinks as long as
you’re here she might as well go on home.”

Newt looked at Aunt Em, and he smiled
agreement. ‘‘You’ve got me for company
now,” he said to his mother; and to the
other woman: “You'll be glad to get back
to your own things, I expect.”

“T don’t aim to pay board in my father’s
house,” Aunt Em retorted stonily.

Sam said in surprise, ‘Pay board?”

Newt took up the word. “If she was
coming here to live she’d want to, Sam.
Nobody wants to be a load on folks; and
ma’ll have all she can do, taking care of me.”

“She says she’s going,” Mrs. Dunnack
interposed, a curious finality in her tones;
and Sam said no more.

But Newt nodded cheerfully. ‘‘ You'll be
cheerfuler at home, Aunt Em!” he agreed.

THE SATURDAY

EVENING POST

After dinner Sam drew Newt aside and
said apologetically, “Kind of hate seeing
Aunt Em go. Uncle Dave don’t live at
home, now, and their boy died.”

Newt grinned good-naturedly. ‘She
wants to go,” he insisted. “She's like
Grampa Mudie, don’t want to be beholden
to anybody. She’d want to pay her board
if she stayed.”

“I guess the boy would have been all
right if she’d sent him out West somewhere,”
Sam commented. “Doctor said so; but
Aunt Em figured she couldn’t afford it. She
keeps saying so, like it was on her mind.
one saying she couldn’t afford to send

im.”

Newt abandoned the subject. “Say we
drive over and see what we'll need to do to
the orchard,” he suggested.

“Why, I'd just as soon,” Sam agreed.
“Maybe Aunt Em and ma’d like the ride.”

“You hook up, and I'l! see,”” Newt told
him; and Sam went out toward the barn.
When he led the horse into the yard, ready
to start, Newt came out to say that Mrs.
Dunnack and Aunt Em preferred to stay
where they were. So Sam and Newt drove
away toward the village together.

Newt asked curiously, “How long you
had this horse?”

“Bought him last spring,’’ Sam replied.
a Will Bissell hundred and twenty for

im.”

“He ain't worth that,”” Newt remarked
critically. “But you never could make a
good trade.”

Vv

N THEIR way through the village and

beyond to the hillside where Sam's or-
chard lay, the two brothers talked quietly
together, Sam abstractedly replying to the
greetings of the people they encountered,
Newt giving full rein to the appetite for
detailed information about family affairs
which gnawed at him so perpetually, He
had never known exactly how much cash
money old Abel Mudie had left behind him
when he took his departure from Fraternity
for good and all; and he tried now to elicit
the information from Sam. Sam repeated
again and again that he did not know.

“Probably not much of anything, the
way ma has to watch the money all the
time,” he suggested. ‘‘ We have to be care-
ful or we wouldn’t get along.”

“That don’t mean much of anything,”
Newt reminded him. ‘“ Ma's like grampa.
She never was one to waste money. Grampa
must have had a pile of it put away. He'd
made it all his life; and he was saving.”

“Never could see how they did it, them
days,” Sam commented mildly. “Looks to

me all a man can do to make a living; but |
they say old Thomas, died up on the ridge |

toward North Fraternity last winter, left
much as ninety thousand dollars right in
the bank in East Harbor, drawing interest
there.”

‘If a man’ll save he can do it,” Newt de-
clared; and he licked his lips a little at
Sam’s mention of this good round sum.
“ Figuring gramp left that much, and there
must have been more, then ma and Aunt
Em and Aunt Mary’d each have had about
thirty thousand. I guess they’ve got every
cent of it, the three of them. Ma never had
anything to spend money on; and she had
too much sense to let pa get hold of it.”

“Well, I dunno,” Sam said again. “I
guess she’s got enough, all right, to take
care of herself, even if something was to
happen to us. I ain’t been able to put any-
thing by for her; and it takes all I can do.”

He was abruptly silent. They were climb-
ing out of the valley toward his orchard,
and the Trask farmyard was just ahead of
them, above the road. His eyes were fixed
in that direction; and Newt followed them
and thought he had a glimpse of a girl just
disappearing into the kitchen door.

Then Sam’s posture relaxed; and he
added, smiling a little as though at himself:
“Yes, sir. Dunno what I'd do if I had a
wife to take care of besides.”

Newt eyed him shrewdly. “Not think-
ing of it, are you?” he inquired.

Sam shook his head. “Never did think
anything about it,” he replied.

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146

“We got ma to take care of,"’ Newt re-
minded him; and Sam nodded, and agreed,
“Sure, we got ma,”

They were passing the house now, and
Newt looked toward it; but there was no
one in sight. He thought with faint amuse-
ment that Sam was almost ridiculously
simple and predictable in his reactions. Like
clay, easily molded by the lightest touch. It
was a good thing that he had come home to
take care of Sam and his mother. Left to
thernselves they must inevitably have come
upon disaster. He put aside with a certain
sense of rectitude his momentary feeling
that hie homecoming had been a virtuous
deed, smiling to himself in honest appre-
ciation of the fact that he had come because
he expected profit from the coming. If he
took care of them, profit was certainly due
him; and he did not blame himself for
being prepared to take what was his due.
Sam's orchard, for example.

Sam turned into a wood road and let the
horse take its easy way up the ascent, stop-
ping at last ameng the first trees, and the
brothers alighted. Newt, looking about
him with an appraising eye, saw that the
trees were only moderately loaded, and
commented on this, Sam nodded.

“They bore heavy last year,” he ex-
plained, “ Just bent down, they were; and
1 kind of looked for no apples at all this
year. But some varieties have set pretty
good. Apples are falling off, though, more’n
you'd think. Like the tree hadn’t life
enough to help ‘em much. Be better an-
other vear, I expect.”’

Going forward they saw branches half-
broken off here and there, by the heavy
erop of tae previous year, and other
branches that had been broken and then
trimmed away.

“Ought to have propped 'em up when
they were loadet so heavily,”” Newt com-
mented. ‘We'll have to do that this fall.”

“Them's Wolf Rivers,” Sam replied.
“You never saw apples as big as they was
last fall. Best I could do, they broke the
trees all to pieces; and I picked a lot early,
at that, thinning them out all I could.”

“Some of these spotted already.”

Sam nodded. “Yes, they spot some. But
I ahip "em unclassified, and a spotted apple
is just as good to eat. Maybe better.”

“You don’t get the price,”” Newt said
sharply. “We'll classify them after this.”

Sam chuckled, whittling at a twig.
“Takes a lawyer and a surveyor and a
painter to classify apples nowadays,” he
said amiably. “Who's going to say? Got
to be the right color, anc the right size, and
have the right iabel on them and all. Why,
say. two years ago I had some big Kings,
and I packed them by hand. Every apple
in the barrel was fine as you ever saw, and
sixteen of ’em faced a barrel. Yes, sir. But
that left a hele in the middle of the face too
tittle for an apple the size of the others, and
I put three little ones in to fill the hole and
keep the others from rattling. Marked the
barrel Number Ones and they pretty near
put me in jail.” He grinned good-naturedly.
“No, sir; unclassified for mine.”

“Well,” Newt said assuredly, “long as
you were going it alone, you could do that
if you wanted to, But now I'm here we're
going to get some system into this. Any-
bedy knows that if you classify your apples
it pays.”

“Wouldn't pay me for the bother,” Sam
insisted mildly.

Newt leughed, and ciapped his brother's
shoulder. “You and pa were always dodg-
ing bother and losing money by it. How
many times you spray these trees?”’

“Why, I give them the dormant spray,”
Sam replied, “But I never could see it did
any good after, A good year they're good,
and a bad year they ain't so good. That’s
all there is to it.”

Newt grinned. “Wonder you didn’t just
wait for them to fall into the barrels, 'stead
of picking them,"’ he commented.

“Well, that would save a pile of trouble,”
Sam agreed, and Newt looked at him alertly,
half suspecting for 2 moment that Sam had
taken the suggestion seriously. Such a man
was, he thought, capable of any indolence.

THE SATURDAY

He was pleased that Sam had not con-
tradicted his assumption of equal owner-
ship of this property. There must be, he
estimated, some five hundred trees in the
orchard; and most of them were fit for
bearing. That meant—how many barrels
of apples, he wondered; and he turned back
to his brother. “How many’d you have
last year?”’ he asked.

“Four hundred and sixty barrels,”” Sam
replied.

“What'd you get for them?”

“Well, I had to hire them picked,”’ Sam
explained. ‘And carried to town and all.
But I cleared close to a thousand dollars,
not counting my time. I'll do pretty good
if I clear a hundred this year, though. And
that don’t count taxes and all.”

Newt licked his lips. ‘“‘What’d you do
with the money?”

Sam grinned. “Oh, paid bills, taxes and
things. It carried us through the winter all
right. I guess burying pa took about the
last of it.”

“You and ma ought to get along on two-
three hundred, looks like, with the garden.”

“Ma could,” Sam assented, “‘ But money
kind of gets away from me. I lent some of
it out to Trask. He ain’t done so good
lately. Ain't been well.”

“What'd you charge him?”

“Oh, I just let him have it.”

Newt grinned angrily. “You need to
learn some sense, Sam. You ain’t going to
see that money again.”

“It don’t worry me,”’ Sam replied.

Newt considered the situation, his eyes
roving among the trees. There was no more
he could do here; he had come merely to
establish in Sam’s mind the fact that the
orchard was to be considered their joint
property, Sam seemed to accept this readily
enough; they need stay no longer.

But Sam's remark that he had lent money
to Trask recalled to Newt’s mind the fact
that Trask had a daughter; and he asked
abruptly, “ What's the girl’s name?”

“Linda,” said Sam.

“‘Let’s we stop there on the way home,”
Newt suggested.

Sam nodded, “I kind of figured on it,”
he agreed. |

So they came presently down the hill, the
careful horse easing himself forward a step
at a time, and turned into the yard in front
of the Trask farm. Trask himself was sit-
ting on the porch steps; and Newt, looking
at him shrewdly, saw a gaunt and indolent
farmer with the wide loose mouth which is
so apt to indicate a talkative nature. A
glance to right and left told the young man
that the farm was unprofitable, slackly run,
allowed to yield as it chose. Trask did not
even rise from his seat to greet them; and
when Sam introduced Newt, Trask merely
lifted his eyes and said a slow good after-
noon.

EVENING POST

Newt sat down beside him, “Got a nice
outlook here,” he remarked, pointing down
toward the valley where they could glimpse
the silver waters of Sebacook Pond couched
among the covering trees. Beyond, the
wooded lowlands lay and beyond them
again rose the steel-blue slopes of the far
hills, touched here and there with green
where black growth clustered among the
hardwoods.

Trask nodded. ‘Yes, sir,” he said, with
surprising emphasis. “ Yes, sir, I like to set
and look at it. Farm like this is wuth
something, where you can rest your eyes on
a stretch of country purty as that is. Man
come along here this summer and wanted
to buy. Said he never did see any place any
purtier. I’d have sold, but he wouldn’t
meet my price; and the old woman, she
said as how if I did sell we hadn’t a place to
go. Herand Linda. I’d have sold out ‘fore
this if it wan’t for them. Taxes eat a man
alive up here.”’

“That’s poor business,”” Newt remarked
authoritatively. ‘‘No sense in high taxes
up here, if the town was run right, by a man
that had any sense.”” As he spoke a new
vista opened out in his thoughts. He had
never considered taking a hand in the town
affairs, but there might be possibilities in
such a course.

“Killing the town, they are,” Trask de-
clared, ‘Got a bale of tax deeds over there
now that ain’t worth the paper; and more
farms abandoned every year.”

“Tax sales?’’ Newt asked, interested and
alert. “ Don’t anybody bid them in?”

“* Nobody fool enough to buy a farm here.
All they’re worth mostly is the lumber on
them.”

Sam interposed an inquiry. “Linda in
the house?” he asked. “Want Newt to
meet her.”

“ Her and the old woman is somewheres,”’
Trask replied. “She was here a minute
ago.”

He reverted to the matter of taxes and
hard times; and Newt listened to him with
half his attention, listening also while Sam
went to the kitchen door and opened it and
went in. Sam was at home here, he de-
cided; and he heard his brother in the
kitchen calling Linda’s name, and after a
moment heard her answering voice, and
that of Mrs. Trask. The girl’s voice in-
terested him; it was soft and low and faintly
hesitant, se that even before he had seen
her he had a picture of her, full formed in
his mind.

When a moment later she and Sam came
out on the porch, he found she was prettier
than he had expected. Her complexion was
good, and her skin was free from that
slightly oily look which he had expected to
see. Her eyes were blue, of an expression
curiously compounded, timidly appealing.
He thought her a girl who had been taught

Goose Creek Just Below Goose Lake, Beartooth Natienal Forest, Montana

October 17,1925

to doubt her own abilities. There was ap-
parent between her and Sam a spiritual
union and a close and affectionate sym-
pathy. Newt rose and greeted her, greeted
her with a smile and a cheerful word.

“Glad to make your acquaintance,” he
declared. “Sam's been telling me a lot
about you ever since this morning.”

Sam drawled a mild protest. “‘ Never said
a word but when you asked something,” he
reminded Newt.

“Well, you can’t blame me for asking,”
Newt retorted, appealing to the girl. “I
saw you yesterday, time I went by.”

“T saw you too,” she replied. Then, as
though regretting this admission, she added,
“But I didn’t know it was you, though.”

Mrs. Trask came out of the kitchen and
Sam introduced Newt. She was a thin and
weary little woman, in whom, nevertheless,
burned that interest in life which is an attri-
bute of country folk. She said quickly, ‘I
been wondering if you wouldn’t come home.
I remember when you went away and what
a stir it made and how everybody talked
for a spell.”

Newt grinned. “Pa and me didn’t get
along,”’ he agreed; and added generously,
“Guess it was my fault. Everybody else
got along with him.”

“Well,” the litthe woman replied, “I
must say I always liked Sam Dunnack, but I
tell Sam here, and I’ve told him many a
time, he was too much like his father.”

Trask said impatiently, ‘“‘Takes a wo-
man to blame a man if he don’t work his
fingers to the bone all the time. I liked to
talk to Sam Dunnack.. Sat here a many a
time and talked to him.”” He remembered
himself and looked at Newt apologetically.
‘Guess you’re more of a business man than
he was, though. Guess you must have done
well.”

“I’ve got along,” Newt said modestly,
and caught Linda’s eye.

The girl was watching him with a curious
interest, and he warmed with pleasure at
this; and thereafter, without appearing to
be conscious of her regard, he nevertheless
exerted himself to impress her, talking
largely of his business affairs, addressing
himself to her father, but never unconscious
of the fact that she was listening. She stood
at one side, and Sam was beyond her; but
her back was turned to Sam, and Newt saw
that he himself commanded her eyes and
her ears.

When he and Sam came to say good-by
he shook hands with her, and held her hand
for a moment. “I’m mighty glad I came
back,” he said, “since I saw you. I’ll prob-
ably be hanging around here a lot if your
father don’t chase me away.”

She gave a quick sidewise glance at Sam,
then smiled at Newt; and Newt thought
there was faint coquetry in her eyes. “You
can come over with Sam,” she said.

The two brothers, on the homeward way,
were silent for a while. Evening was laying
its cool mantle across the countryside; the
valleys were filling with clotted shadows;
the distant hills were deepest blue and the
air was very still.

Sam said quietly at last, ‘Linda and me
like each other pretty well.”

Newt nodded. ‘Don’t blame you,” he
said heartily. “‘You’ve got sense there.”
He chuckled. “ Dunno as I can say as much
for her.”

Sam made no comment, and silence held
them again; but Newt’s thoughts were
active; he saw unfolding before him a vista
full of promise. He knew his own mental
superiority over Sam; felt no doubt of his
ability to dominate his younger brother.
His mother, who had once inspired him with
respectful fear, was grown old; there was
an uncertainty in her bearing which hinted
at a weakness of which he could surely take
advantage. He foresaw no difficulty in
gathering into his own hands the family
affairs.

And he thought it would be equally easy
to make Linda Trask one of his possessions.
The prespect was appealing. He was in a
very good humor during that homeward
drive.

(TO BE CONTINUED)

THE

SATURDAY EVENING POST

MARTLY dressed men who have sought
comfort during the hot weather, have
eliminated autumn’s uncongenial change
to the stiff starched collar.

Men of confessed leadership have
found in the trim, smart Van Heusen
just that touch of dignity in dress
® that goes with these early Fall days.
? In the more exacting demands of dress,

in the business and social contacts that
come with cooler weather, the Van
Heusen preéminently asserts its vogue as
the Smart Collar.

Style is not stiffened into it by
starch, but is woven—by an exclusive,
patented process—into its single,
smooth piece of strong, curved, multi-

ply fabric.

Patented

For all occasions, the Van Heusen
is the world’s Smartest, most comfort-
able, most economical collar.

12 Van Heusen Styles, 50c each.

To DEALERS:
Send in your requisitions now for newly
designed CHRISTMAS BOXES.

Phillips-Jones, New York

VAN HEUSEN

te Worlds frartest (GLLAR

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST October 17, 1925

i

The New Rem-
ington Sheath

Beautitully The Extreme Long-Range Loads

finished and Remington Heavy Duck Loads will out-
perfectly bal- shoot, shell for shell, any other long-range
anced, Fur- loads on the market, They are fast, close-
nished in various shooting, and hard-hitting. Try a dox and
styles and lengths. get the thrills of long, clean kills when the
Blades are extra birds are wild and flying high.
heavy-gauge with
knurled backs; correctly
shaped for practical serv- ‘
ice in camp, everything from
slicing bacon to dressing deer.
Full-length handles fit the hand and assure
& firm grip, and Remington's exclusive color de-
sian adds to their attractiveness. Sheaths of ex , J
tra heavy, flexible belcing leather, stitched and ys
riveted, with lock-tite clasps. f

Model iC Remington Pump-Gun,
12-CGiauge Six-Shot Repeater
Smooth operation, beauty of design, per-

fect balance, natural pointing, and hard Hi-S d and Express Cartridges

shooting qualities have made this Amer-
eA potergele no Seen S os Remington Express Cartridges give more speed to the
elected at the bottom, which gives full heaviest mushrooming bullets. They are especially rec-
protection to the shooter, All the popu- ommended for moose, grizzly, and other large game.
lar barrel-lengths; full choke, mod- Remington Hi-Speed Cartridges are the fastest long-range
thed choke or cylinder bore. mushrooming cartridges made. Recommended for fast-
moving game and open shooting

ee

See the Sportsmen’s Show—
Now In Your Town

ERE’S an exhibition to delight every lover of outdoor life. This
week Hardware and Sporting Goods Dealers are staging Sports-
men’s Shows in their windows.

The dealers in your town invite you to examine the newest equipment
for hunters, trappers, campers, and automobile tourists; to see the latest
models of Remington Shotguns and Rifles; Remington Game Loads, and
metallic ammunition; pocket cutlery, and the new Remington Sports-
men’s Knives with sheaths.

Remington is co-operating to make this nation-wide exhibit interesting
and valuable. The display your dealer has arranged represents a real
service to you. Go into his store today, and learn all about the practical,
new accessories for sportsmen that will add to the success, comfort, and
pleasure of your next trip.

Remington Arms Company, Inc.
25 Broadway Established 1816 New York City

© 1925—R. A. Co.

Ammunition

ame Loads

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

REMINGTON
ume fk

ko

oo
pe

oT og £0) 3) i
12 to17

—_*

REMINGTON Car)

"a

SHOTGUNS RIFLES

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

mph kind of radio you have
been waiting for, Stewart-Warner de-
signed and perfected each individual

unit, the Instrument, the Tube, the

Reproducer, the Accessories.

And then, to complete radios wong trium
these units were matched together for pe: --
functioning with each other.

The results will be a revelation to you. The won-
derful quality of tone, sensitiveness, volume and
selectivity are due to the efficiency of these
matched units.

Reproduction is so realistic that the artists seem
to agueee in your presence. Whether listening to

or distance stations you always have the
satisfaction of “front row” seats with all the com-
forts of home.

Stewart-Warner engineering has simplified tuning

PSO ee

to the last degree. A master wave length dial shows

the settings for the desired station. Women and

children have found tuning rather difficult—not

so with Stewart-Warner Radios.

ae model is the handiwork of master craftsmen.
ope uisite finish of walnut enhances the beauty

ess of the home surroundings.

resi ‘Warner has blazed a trail in being the first

to sell its radio products thru exclusive dealers,

who are pledged to give you the kind of service

that means complete radio satisfaction.

The purchase of a Stewart-Warner Matched-Unit

Radio is an investment that will pay big returns

in uninterrupted radio enjoyment.

Before making your selection of a radio set, it is

of utmost importance that you listen to a Stewart-

Warner Matched-Unit Radio.

Hear one at your dealers today!

STEWART-WARNER SPEEDOMETER COR'N - CHICAGO, U.& A.

Dlewaib-lWamnev
Matched~-Unit | Radio

INSTRUMENTS

COPYRIGHT 1925 BY aa

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October 17, 1925

Tune in Stewart-Warner programs,
Station WBBM, 226 meters

Monday 6-7 p.m. Thursday 9-10 p.m.
Tuesday 10-12 p.m. ‘Friday 8-10 p.m.
Wednesday 12-2 a.m. Saturday 11-1 a.m,
Sunday 4-6 p.m.
CHICAGO TIME

Set dials at 12 on your Stewart-Warner
Matched-Unit Radio

to the blast of damp wind and the equal
blackness outside. In that obscurity, there
was a brief exchange of jocular reeommen-
dations, a curt wishing of good luck to one
another ere they separated on their several
duties.

The executive officer groped his way down
the dark ladder to the dark deck below,
descended a steel stairway to the battery
deck where the six-inch guns of the auxiliary
armament should be already manned by
their crews. All below decks was his par-
ticular province in action. It was his pre-
liminary duty to ascertain that the steel
doors from compartment to compartment
were all duly closed, that the action-candles,
supplementary, if the electric light should
fail, were all lit behind their wire cages, that
the fire-brigade parties were alert and ready
with hoses uncoiled, mains tested and gas
masks susceptible of instant use, that the
deep-down shell-room parties were standing
by with anti-flash doors shut and ammuni-
tion hoists running freely, that all telephones
and voice pipes to the command stations of
the ship were in working order, that a thou-
sand and one other details were as they
should be. Held in conference with the
captain, this was his first opportunity to
make his tour of inspection since action sta-
tions had been sounded.

He arrived on the battery deck, dimly lit
by the blue electric-light bulbs of darkened
ship, was saluted by the young officer in
charge of the forward section of the six-inch
guns. The crew of the weapon in this com-
partment sprang to a silent immobility.

“All correct, sir,”” reported the young
officer.

The executive officer ran his eye over the
details of this steel-inclosed space, over the
row of sharply pointed shells standing verti-
cally on their bases in handy proximity to
the gun, an equivalent sufficiency of cylin-
drical cordite charges adjacent, over the
steel-walled ammunition hoist, open, with
another shell horizontal upon the cradle at
its summit, over each technical point for
which he bore the responsibility, and
nodded.

“Any news, sir?”’ queried the lad, in a
barely suppressed effervescence of excite-
ment. “Any chance of the enemy before
dawn?”’

The executive officer smiled tolerantly at
him, his round honestly jovial face facti-
tiously ghastly in the blue light.

“Gun flashes reported on the horizon.
We're going to catch him all right. Don’t
worry.”

The young officer grinned ecstatically.

“Thank you, sir.”’

The executive officer passed on, opened
the steel door into the next compartment,
closed it behind him with a clang. As he
did so, he heard the not-longer-to-be-
repressed cheer of the men in the compart-
ment he had quitted.

“Good lads!”” he thought, as he re-
sponded to the salute of the petty officer in
charge of the next gun. “Hope they come
out all right.’"” He saw himself composing
his report after the action—‘“ Men keen as
mustard.”

He passed from compartment to com-
partment of the dimly blue-lit deck, be-
hind six-inch gun after six-inch gun, each
with its breech anticipatorily holding its
first sheli, past fire-brigade parties rigid in
readiness at his approach, finding every-
where the same high tension of enthusiasm
and excitement. Officers, petty officers and
men alike along that deck lived only for the
moment when the violent concussion of
the first great gun should announce that the
perilous game had begun. They were the
comparatively lucky ones. Through thegun
sights some of them at least might catch
a glimpse of the enemy, get some direct
knowledge of the vicissitudes of the fight.

The men in those lower spaces to which
he now descended had no such privilege.
Immured within electric-lit steel prisons
below the water line, all they would know

GOLIATH

(Continued from Page 9)

of the coming action would be a confusion
of blurred detonations, of violent thuds and
staggering shakes of the ship in which it
would be impossible to distinguish the
firing of her own guns from the impact of
the shells that struck her. Yet as they
stood to their posts, they were as enthu-
siastically eager for the ordeal, as ecstati-
cally filled with the fierce self-forgetting
primitive joy of deadly conflict, as their
comrades on the deck above. Like those
others, their individual identities, their in-
dividual hopes and fears, were in abeyance,
were merged in one corporate battle-lusting
confident oversoul which was that of the
ship herself. The executive officer grinned
amicably, fraternally, at them as he re-
assured their happy impatience, the immi-
nence of the longed-for crisis provoking an
unwonted mutual familiarity. The more
bold answered him, in brief picturesque
vernacular, as though the ship were theirs
and they had made it, boyishly gleeful in
their robust certainty of invincibility.

He left them, passed along narrow and
deserted steel corridors deep within the
ship. It was strangely quiet here; the hum-
ming whir of the ventilating fans the only
sound. Always such an all-pervading ac-
companiment to the life of the ship as
normally to be scarcely noticed, they were
now dominant in their busy persistence.
The executive officer found himself sud-
denly wondering what would happen if the
ship had to pass through areas flooded with
poison gas as did an army in the field, had a
brief disturbing vision of her suicidally
sucking in a mortally asphyxiating at-
mosphere, forcing it through every part of
her to the remotest recesses. He banished
the thought with a reassuring recognition
of this wild improbability. Thank heaven,
the insidious treachery of poison gas had
no place in naval warfare. Conflict be-
tween ships was still the honest, stand-up,
hammer-and-tongs fight between gun and
gun, victory the portion of the one who
could give and withstand the hardest
knocks; the only poison gas to be guarded
against, that locally generated by con-
flagration and the explosion of shells—a
contingency for which the fire-brigade
parties were duly equipped with masks.

He passed into a bleak confined steel-
walled space, brightly lit by electric lamps
and equipped with hot-water faucets and
store cupboards thrown open to reveal
arrays of bottles and piled-up rolls of
bandages, where the surgeon and his as-
sistants waited by an empty and still-
white operating table—exchanged a cheery
word.

“We shall soon be at it now,” said the
surgeon, his eyes also shining with the
battle fever, professionally noncombatant
though he was. “I hear that gun flashes
are piainly visible.”

“Yes,” replied the executive officer.
“In about an hour’s time. We’re in gor-
geous luck.”

He passed on, went down and up and
down endless steel ladders to those pro-
found depths where the shell-room parties
were playing cards as they waited for the
ammunition hoists to begin their clashing,
clattering service to the hungry guns
above, to those remote and isolated sub-
merged torpedo flats where seriously intent
men were fitting the war heads to the mon-
strous steel fishes presently to be ejected
at the enemy, to yet a number of other
buried battle stations only to be found by
the experienced in the Dedalian intricacy
of that steel-subdivided interior. Every-
where those prisoned groups cf men, in-
escapably doomed if the ship should sink,
greeted him with exultantly confident
enthusiasm, with strangely jocular im-
patience for that appalling risk. He
thrilled happily in a pride of community
with them. The captain was right—the
ship couldn’t be beaten in fair fight.

Finally, at the termination of his inspec-
tion, he clambered down a vertical square

THE SATURDAY

EVENING POST

well in the very midship center of the ship,
found himself in a small room whose walls
were covered with voice pipes, telephones
and indicators, where the uniformed as-
sistants of the officer in charge sat idly at
the keyboard of instruments vaguely
reminiscent of the fitments of a commercial
office. It was the central transmitting
station of the ship. Here presently the
changing ranges, the varying relative rates
of speeds and courses, would be telephoned
down from the collaborating range finders
and fire-control stations above, would be
registered by those calculating machines on
long ribbons of paper and the quotient
automatically and swiftly declared, to be
instantly telephoned back to the control
station concerned. It was now hushed in
a silence of suspense, the whir of the
electric fans, sucking air down through the
ventilating trunk, again the dominant
sound.

The officer showed him the latest wire-
less signals still coming in from the retir-
ing battle-cruiser fleet, the enemy still hard
upon its heels.

“‘He’s running straight into the trap,”
he said ecstatically. “We're going to
annihilate him. Who says battleships are
no good?”

The executive officer tersely designated
the particular variety of fool as he went to
one of the telephones, spoke to the captain,
reported all correct.

The gray-headed engineer captain had
descended another series of steel ladders,
stood now in the starboard half of those
twin armor-divided halls of complicated
machinery, immense swathed steam pipes,
vast black engine parts, bright steel and
burnished copper, which were his realm.
The hum of the great turbines, invisible
within their casings, was like the purring of
some gigantic feline, contentedly savoring
her sense of power, Around him, the verti-
cally moving piston rods of steadily work-
ing pumps, the rotations, oscillations,
thrust and retreat of those crowded and
various machines that, in one complex
symphony of precisely correlated activity,
supplied the innumerable auxiliary serv-
ices one and all deriving their energy from

this sole and central source, flashed and |
glimmered in the radiance of the great |

overhead electric lamps.

From above, a torrent of fresh air forced
down one of the wide ventilating shafts
fell upon his shoulders in a cold cascade,
uncomfortably chilly by contrast with this
warm oil-impregnated atmosphere. He
moved out of it, went to the control station
where, seated at an office-like desk between
walls covered from top to bottom with dials
and gauges, the engineer officer on watch
was in tranquil command of forty thousand
horse power.

“Steam for twenty-three knots by 2:15,”
he said curtly, antedating by a quarter of
an hour a request made to him by the
captain in the chart room above. ‘‘We may
be in for a stern chase. Let all hands know

that gun flashes are visible on the horizon.

We're going to catch 'em at dawn,”
The junior officer grinned as he went toa
voice pipe.

“TI wouldn’t be in their shoes for a bit,

sir,”” he said. “‘Holy Moses! They won't
have a chance when we get at ’em. What
colossal luck!”

The old engineer captain’s eyes shone as’
he smiled grimly in concurrence.

“Magnificent! We'll show ’em who's
cock of this walk.”

He moved out of the control station,
went toward the elevator that communi-
cated with the boiler rooms, descended in

the cage to a sudden suffocating heat. He |

emerged, passed along a perilously narrow
passage between vast boilers that con-
verged almost to junction overhead, came
out on a transverse space where blackened
half-naked men stood intent before the
(Continued on Page 153)

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

Insurance Agent

Firebug

The

Auditor and President’s Son President

October 17,1925

GRINNELL Characters

have a day off

YR six years these characters have dramatized a series of business
episodes.

Consulting Engineer

In varying circumstances they have emphasized the fact that Industrial

Purchasing Agent

Piping should be judged by results in use—by economy and satisfaction
year after year, not by saving in first cost.

They have portrayed the human

problems which cannot be separated from physical and economic facts.

Can we dispense with dialogue—discard drama completely—and yet be
able to correct age-old misjudgements about these extremely important
equipments in modern industrial buildings?

This question was recently asked by one of our executives. If you think
the affirmative answer was justified your attention is assured for what

follows.

Owner and Old Engineer

It’s easy reading and interesting.

Mayor and Fire Chief

A Preference and its Cost

WHEN Grinnell Company is as low a bidder
as anyone else on a piping contract, or on
a specification for fabricated material and piping
supplies, Grinnell Company is almost invariably
awarded the business.

That, perhaps, is the most significant fact in the
piping world, It can mean only one thing. Grinnell
work — manufacturing, interpretations, engineering,
contracting—is better. Grinnell superiority is recog
nized and preferred by the experienced buyers of
sprinkler, and heating equipments and
piping supplies.

pe wer

Too often, however, buyers are unwilling to pay the
They want the best results,
but they insist on the lowest price. They forget that the
very factors that make them prefer us are the very fac-
tors it costs us money to provide. As a contractor,
Grinnell Company cannot fly by night because, as a
it has the solid roots of a $10,000,000
al! that means in the way of finan.

cost of their preference.

manufacturer
capitalization with
cial responsibility

As a contractor Grinnell Company is not a jack-of-
all-trades serving a few counties, but a service organi
zation which for years has specialized on piping
throughout the United States and Canada,

Although a national, interstate organization, Grinnell
Company is local in every part of the country, with ten
strategicaliy located manufacturing and fabricating
plants and warehouses.

Further to bring to local service all the experience and
equipment of a national specialist, Grinnell Company
has thirty offices in principal cities from coast to coast, in

each of which competent engineering corps furnish close
personal codperation with architects, consulting en-
gineers, plant engineers and owners.

Instead of placing reliance oh labor picked up on the
job for the job, Grinnell Company employs a perma-
nent road operating force of over 1,000 men, in charge
of 200 travelling construction foremen, under the
supervision of 40 general foremen. This assures any-
body that the Grinnell construction standard in Maine
is the Grinnell standard in Oregon.

Grinnell Company as a manufacturer supplies
Grinnell Company as a contractor with materials which
other contractors find it difficult to duplicate from
companies who are manufacturers only, Such standards
are best exemplified in the famous Grinnell Cast Iron
Fittings and Adjustable Pipe Hangers.

HERE’S a Grinnell
Pipe Hanger for
every
structural condition.
They can now be bought
by anyone, Our 120-
page Pipe Hanger Cata-
log puts 40 years’ prac-
tical experience into
usable shape for you.
Send for it today,

GRINNELL
Adjustable

PIPE HANGERS

Use a
eleysan

every purpose

These better standards apply not only to manufac-
tured products but to fabricated material such as cut
pipe, bends and welds.

With the usual contractor a specification is often in-
terpreted by an organization which has not the engineer-
ing talent to understand what the consulting engineer or
architect desires. The pipe on such a specification is
often reamed by crude hand methods on the job or in
some local pipe shop. Either it must be installed by the
contractor, no matter how it measures up to the speci-
fications, or else the installation work is delayed. The
specification is handled by several separate and distinct
organizations. Each has discharged his responsibility
when he has done his part.

But on a Grinnell job, the engineering interpretation
is Grinnell’s, the fabrication is Grinnell’s and the instal-
lation is Grinnell’s. Our responsibility is never dis-
charged until the finished equipment completely satisfies
its owner. -It is significant in this connection that
Grinnell Company in all its contracts has never defaulted
on a single one.

All Grinnell piping systems, if stretched out in a single
line, would circle the earth several times. And all those
thousands of miles of built-in excellence prove the
soundness of a policy whose goal has been and still is
better performance both in piping systems and supplies.

When you begin to buy such products on the basis of
low-cost performance instead of on the basis of low first-
cost, you will agree that the service is worth all and more
than 1s asked for it.

7 * + *
R further information write us today. Address
Grinnell Company, Inc.,, 302 West Exchange
Street, Providence, R. I

GRINNELL COMPANY

Steam & Hot Water
Heating Equipment

Automatic Sprinkler
Sesseme

Humidifying and Fittings, H

Drying Equipment

angers
and Valves

Power and

Pipe Bending,
Process Piping

Welding, etc.

If it’s Industrial Piping, take it up with us

(Continued from Page 151)
little trapdoors of the oil furnaces. From
the edges of those trapdoors escaped a
fierce yellow glare unendurable to the eye.
The half-naked men lifted them every now
and then, peered into the blindingly in-
candescent interior through little screens of
colored glass, adjusted the little wheels
which governed the flow of fuel. From
overhead, underneath the ventilatingshafts,
torrents of cold air descended in an ex-
cessive refreshment that was narrowly local.

The engineer captain passed from boiler
room to boiler room, the grimed junior
engineer officers on watch following him
nervously as he lingered within their several
provinces, his eyes sharply scrutinizing the
gauges. He ignored them, satisfied with all
he saw, spoke only to the half-naked stokers.

“Keep her up to it, my lads. We're
nearly in touch with the enemy.”

Grotesque in the sweat-channeled black
of their faces, they answered him with wild
fanatic cheers.

High up in the forward gunnery-control
tower, the gunnery officer removed the
binoculars from his eyes, glanced at his
wrist watch. It marked 2:35. Already the
horizon on their starboard beam was bright-
ening, the clouds overhead bleaching from
immediately vertical darkness to a pallid
gray in the direction of the yet hidden sun.
Away to the northeastward, the flickering
flashes of persistent gunfire had long been
incessant, were now somewhat less vivid in
their undiminished continuance. On the
other hand, those first dull mutterings had
swelled to a throbbing roll of ominous
sound, louder at every moment. To port of
them, just vaguely visible, the three con-
sort battleships made white foam patches
in the murky gray blending of sea and sky.
Astern, the great odd-shaped bulk of the
aircraft carrier loomed up like a ghost ship.
In the middle distance, ahead and to their
flanks, the gloom-shrouded covering screen
of light cruisers and destroyers sent belts of
black smoke drifting across the dark foam-
flecked sea.

The gunnery officer ignored all these
nearer objects, focused his glasses on the
northeastern horizon as once more he put
them to his eyes. The demarcation line was
becoming distinct, and along it from the
northward moved, just discernible, little
wedge-shaped blobs of smoke. He waited,
his heart involuntarily beating hard with
excitement, enforcing steadiness of his
glasses against the vibration of his own
ship, forcing her way at full speed through
the slashing seas. Minutes passed—min-
utes that were divorced from the ordinary
standards of time, that seemed stretched
indefinitely in his anxious impatience. Yes,
there in the northward gloom, separated by
an interval from the retreating battle
cruisers, was a tiny but distinct stab of
flame, a faint blur of smoke—several of
them. He watched intensely, made quite
sure. Those blurs of smoke became larger,
more distinct, came steadily south on a
course far to eastward of him. The enemy’s
fleet! He bent to a closely adjacent voice
pipe, spoke to the captain in his control
station on the bridge structure below, re-
ported with precision what he saw.

“Reserve fire until you get the word,”
came the answer. “The admiral wants to
get as close as possible before we give our-
selves away.”

At that moment the ship swung on a
slight turn to starboard. As he raised his
head from the voice pipe, he saw the twin-
kling of tiny signal lamps in the consort
battleships likewise changing course. They
were acknowledging the orders now being
swiftly transmitted from the flagship. An
instant later a midshipman in the control
top handed him the routine copies of them
sent to him for his information.

He scanned through them, glanced at the
indicators, which showed that the great
guns in the turrets were all at the ready.
Behind him a2 range taker had begun to in-
tone figures immediately telephoned down
to the central transmitting station, to-
gether with the course and speed factors

THE SATURDAY

observed by an officer at another instru-
ment. He took over the telephone from
that station buried sightlessly deep in the
bowels of the ship, sat with the earpieces
clipped to his head, heard with a peculiar
thrill the first figures spoken by that distant
voice slowly and distinctly enunciating in
succession the constantly changing bear-
ings and ranges for fire. And still, as he
listened, he watched those far-off blurs of
smoke. They came down slowly into the
irradiated zone of the horizon, were defi-
nitely larger against a faintly luminous
gray sky, were still firing, it seemed, at
those battle cruisers which were now south
of his are of vision. He could see the.twin-
kle of their gun flashes, could hear the dull
rumbling roar of their discharges arriving
in wave after wave of sound. Five minutes
passed—seemed likean hour. Those distant
ships were now sharply silhouetted in min-
iature, their identity plainly recognizable.

The signal was brought to him:

“Engage leading ship at fifteen thou-
sand. One sighting salvo.”

Even as he glanced at it, the voice that
spoke into his earpieces declaimed:

“Leading ship sixteen-two-five-o bear-
ing.”

He ceased to look at the enemy, fixed his
gaze on the dials of the control instruments
to the forward turrets, laid his hands upon
the levers, adjusted them to a precise repe-
tition on the dials of the figures rapidly and
successively telephoned to him from the
transmitting station. In less than a min-
ute ——

Within the gun house of B turret, im-
mediately forward of the conning tower,
shut off by fourteen-inch walls of solid steel
from the outside world, the crew waited in
a tense silence of expectation. Already
hours ago the hydraulic chain rammers had
rushed the immense projectiles into the
breeches of those monster guns which, di-
vided from each other by a bulkhead of
steel, all but monopolized the narrowly
limited space. The great breechblocks had
long ago been closed with a dull clang, the
captains of the guns had jerked down the
lever which signaled to the control top that
they were at the ready.

For hours they had waited in a suspense
that had at last been broken by the sudden
rotary motion of the entire turret as it
trained in obedience to the levers in the
master position, by the sudden movement
of the indicators on the dials. They could
see nothing of what was passing outside. It
was not necessary. They were in director
laying and firing. The lieutenant of the
turret, perched up in the sighting hood be-
hind and between the guns, was for the
moment superfluous, transmitted no orders.
The gunnery control top was in automatic
command of his weapons. The gun layers
and trainers sat in their exiguous seats, deli-
cately maneuvering the levers of dials re-
sembling those of merchant-ship bridge
telegraphs, meticulously keeping coincident
with the movements of an inner dial hand
the pointers which indicated and provoked
the delicate fractional adjustments of those
colossal tubes.

Suddenly, without warning, independent
of their velition, there was a stunning crash,
a violent shock. The guns had fired.

Instantly there was a pandemonium of
noise in that cramped steel cave—a shout-
ing of orders, repeated as vociferously in
acknowledgment, a vehement hissing of
compressed air scouring the gun barrels, a
deafening metallic crashing as the ammu-
nition cages jerked up through the armored
trunk from the shell rooms far below, an
even more deafening rattle as the chain
rammers shot out and rushed the projectiles
and the charges into the breeches, a dull
clang as the breeches were closed, a quick
succession of sharp voices as the different
members of the crew reported each that his
function was completed. Once more the
captains of the guns jerked down the signal
levers to the ready. Once more there was
silence as the gun layers played delicately
with their pointers. Once more, suddenly,
disconcertingly, came the violent shock, the

EVENING POST

jerk and recovery of the monster weapons
on their recoil slides, the devastating crash
that was more a stunning concussion than
a sound.

The gun crews cheered in an irresistible
outburst of delirious excitement. Once
more, for thirty seconds, that narrow steel
cave was filled with clamor, with a haze of
fumes.

Once more there was silence, while the
entire turret moved slightly with a quick
steady motion on its axis, stopped.

The next instant there was a series of
muffied detonations, a thud and crash of
water flung violently on the steel roof. The
enemy had fired his first salvo in reply. It
was answered in a roar that was like an
automatic reflex.

The captain of the ship stood with the
admiral and the chief of staff in the conning
tower, uncomfortably crowded with officers

and subordinate personnel. They looked |

out through the narrow slit under the flat-
tened dome of the massive steel roof that
was marked with long diversely colored
lines indicative of the ares of fire of the
several turrets. On the circular steel walis
was a mass of indicators, telephones and

voice pipes communicating with every fight- |

ing station in the ship. In the middle, con-
centrated on his task, indifferent to the

confusion of voices as a variety of orders |

was shouted without cessation into those
instruments by the subordinates of the
officers specifically concerned, a quarter-
master stood stolidly at the wheel.

The three senior officers looking out
through the slit were equally oblivious of
the babel behind them. Their attention
was focused on the panorama of battle dis-
persed over a wide black sea under the
glimmering sky of dawn. In close prox-
imity to the ship, immensely high fountains
of water were slowly rearing themselves,
mushrooming for an instant or two at their
summits before they collapsed in a heavy
smash that whitened the heaving waves.
At intervals of little more than half a
minute the four great guns in the turrets
immediately forward of the conning tower
answered in a brief blinding glare of flame,
an appalling simultaneous detonation, a
staggering shake and wrench of the ship.
At a little distance, and still away to port,

|
|

the three consort battleships, gray in the |
gray light, were likewise firing in violent |
claps of metallic thunder from their for- |
ward turrets. Away ahead, flotillas of de- |
stroyers were maneuvering in smothers of |
smoke, the light cruisers were steaming at |
full speed to their allotted stations on the |

flanks of the fight.

Conscious as they were of all these ships-
as a chess player is perpetually conscious of
the totality of his own pieces on the board—
it was on the far eastward horizon that the
three officers focused their binoculars.
There, a congregation of blurs of smoke,
out of which rippled incessantly tiny quick
yellow flashes, the enemy was replying in
rolls of gruff thunder that reached them in
the intervals between their own detona-
tions. Immediately on their first salvo he
had changed course, was retiring now at his
utmost speed in escape to the northeast-
ward. He was fighting desperately in two
directions. To the south of him, the battle
cruiser fleet, obedient to wireless orders,
had swung round from its long flight, was
racing to head him off.

Every now and then the dark silhouettes
of his vessels detached themselves from the
blurs af smoke they created, were clearly
visible against the gray sky, surrounded by
shell splashes, their hulls dotted every now
and then by that dull red waxing-and-
waning glow of a direct hit instantly dis-
tinguishable from the bright brief flash of
the guns in reply. It was possible to discern
that his fleet had divided itself into two
tactical units, a group of fous more distant
battle cruisers detached to beat back the
adversary battle cruisers, his two great

battleships fighting a rear-guard action |

with the four battleships urged at their ut-
most speed upon his track. Around them

all, his destroyer flotillas were beginning to |

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154

trace impenetrable walls of black smoke as a
screen for his retirement.

That protective maneuver was, on the
other side, already countered. Half a dozen
aircraft, risen ‘from the carrier wallowing
at a safe distance behind, were already
speeding toward him, would in a minute
or two be over that amoke screen, be spot-~
ting for the guns. Already they were like
black birds against the gray clouds between
the two fleets.

In that crowded conning tower the men
grinned ecstatically at one another as they
crouched at their instruments, transmitting
the orders sharply uttered by the set-faced
officers, each intent on his own specialty.
They were deliriously happy in the intoxi-
cation of battle springing from latent
depths in them coeval with the competitive
beginnings of life itself. Blood ran un-
noticed in rivulete from their ears, lacerated
by constant and violent concussions, their
eyes, pink and white underneath as they
watered and were hurriedly smeared,
gieamed strangely from faces grotesquely
grimed with acrid drifting smoke. Shel-
tered within these massive steel walls,
exuilting in the titanic power of the ship in
which they lost their separate identities,
the sense cf fear was in abeyance in them-
the unconsidered potentiality of personal
danger a mere additional zest to fierce en-
joyment.

They laughed in a primitive ecstasy of
annihilating the foe, themselves godlike
and secure.

Nevertheless, the enemy was replying
vehemently, in salve after salvo that flung
great geysers brusquely upward from the
waves leaping at their flanks. The battle
din was a pandemonium of throbbing thun-
der, of vicious crashes, of demoniac howls
and screeches, of deafening colqgsal slams—
as their own guns fired —that blotted out all
else. Already violent detonations of dif-
ferent sound, disconcerting shudders of the
ship as though she had been suddenly
checked in her course, had been eloquent
of heavy direct hits upon her structure—
hits reported a moment or two later by
telephone from the part affected. But none
of them had been vital or even serious. The
turrets were still firing as quickly as the
guns could be reloaded. The three senior
officers, gazing out through the slit of the
conning tower, ignored the blows they
themselves received, concentrated them-
selves in a tension of al! their faculties upon
the flying enemy.

A great confiagration had broken out in
the after part of the hindmost ship. It
seemed that her speed was already reduced,
although the smoke screen laid far ahead by
the enemy destroyers was now almost a
complete barrier to direct observation.
They watched that smoke screen sharply,
alert for the possible destroyer attack that
might issue from it. Their own destroyers,
obeying orders from the flagship, were
tactically disposed to counter any such sud-
den menace, Meanwhile, the four monster
battleships, battle ensigns and signal flags
gayly fluttering from their superstructures,
raced through the. seas that leaped and
foamed at their bows, through the shell
splashes that towered magnificently all
about them. They had changed course
slightly to northward so as to bring all
their turrets to bear, and, echeloned in this
new direction which had brought the flag-
ship into the rearmost position, they vom-
ited incessantly vivid flame and ear-
shattering thunder from front and rear. If
only they could hold their target for yet
half an hour, the total destruction of the
enemy was a certainty.

A signal was brought to the admiral. It
was from the aircraft, tiny black dots
against the gray sky ahead:

“Five enemy aircraft carriers, protected
by three cruisers, thirty miles W. N. W. on
8. E. course.”

The admiral smiled grimly as he glanced
at it, passed it to the chief of staff, to the
captain of the ship.

“We're going to make a clean job of the
lot,” he said,

THE SATURDAY

Another signal from his aeroplanes,
timed six minutes later, came on the heels
of the first, which had evidently been de-
layed in transmission through the over-
worked decoding room:

“Enemy aircraft rising from carriers and
cruisers. Thirty of them already in the air.
Apparently bombers with fighting escort,
Shall we hold on or retire? Shall be heavily
outnumbered.”

The admiral’s lips compressed them-
selves for a moment in a thin straight line.

“Call our birds back,” he said curtly to
the chief of staff. “Signal all ships anti-
aircraft tactics, repeating information.
They won’t be able to hurt us. Our A-A
guns will keep ’em high. And we’ll deal
with the carriers directly we've settled the
battleships. Carry on.”

Minutes passed in which the chase, the
vehement rapid thundering of the guns, the
roar and scream of projectiles hurled at
them by the retreating enemy, the upgush-
ing of founts of water where they fell over
or short, the sudden shake and jolt of those
that hit, continued without cessation. Tele-
phone messages uttered by voices coming
from the steel-caverned interior of that
ship wrapped in flame and smoke reported
three guns of the starboard six-inch battery
out of action, a cordite fire already extin-
guished in X turret, another fire still raging
in the admiral’s lobby. These were trifles.
The enemy was being held, pulverized.
Both his battleships were now blazing.

The chief of staff touched the admiral on
the arm, shouted in the deafening roar.

“There's his aircraft, sir!’’ He pointed
to the gray sky to northward. It was dotted
with black specks. “Plenty of ’em, too!
There can’t be far short of a hundred.”

The admiral nodded, focused his binocu-
lars on them. Like a great flight of sea
birds, they grew rapidly larger, revealed
themselves as in a succession of squadrons,
one behind the other, speeding at an im-
mense height on a course that would eventu-
ally cut across that of the battleships.

The captain turned, shouted a series of
swift orders for transmission to the anti-
aircraft guns. Those of the destroyers and
light cruisers ahead were already spurting
little tongues of flame upward, were speck-
ling the clouds with tiny shell bursts. The
aeroplanes sailed on, untouched.

“A massed bomb attack,” commented
the chief of staff. “They'll swing round
toward us in a moment.”

“Too high to do anything except drop
their eggs at random,” replied the admiral.
“It'll only be sheer hard luck if they man-
age to hit anything. They're not going to
be allowed to put us off. Keep straight
ahead.”

The three officers continued to watch the
oncoming mass of aircraft, while the great
guns in the turrets in front of them fired
uninterruptediy at the retreating enemy
ships, now practically hidden by vast belts
of smoke stretched across the sea. The
nearest of those smoke screens was now
about a couple of miles ahead of them,
drifting toward them on the head wind.
Contrary to their expectation, the aero-
planes did not circle round to them, pur-
sued their course straight ahead, approxi-
mately over that smother of smoke.

“What's that they’re dropping?” queried
the captain sharply. ‘Doesn’t look like

EVENING POST

bombs. Do you see it? Looks like some
sort of liquid.”

In fact, a shimmer of vertically descend-
ing thin lines was just discernible like rain
beneath the swarm of aircraft.

“T don’t care what it is,” replied the ad-
miral. “They’re not going te prevent me
finishing off those battleships. Reenforcing
his smoke screen, probably. I’m going
straight through it.”

The chief of staff turned to his superior,
his pleasant face suddenly anxious.

“You don’t think it might possibly be
gas, sir?’’ he hazarded.

“Nonsense! Never heard of gas being
put down like that at sea—all very well on
land. I don’t believe it’s possible. But
send a query to those destroyers that have
just gone through the smoke screen.”

The chief of staff turned, shouted an
order to the signalman behind him.

“There'll scarcely be time for the reply,
sir,” he added. “We shall be in it in less
than e minute, all four of us, if we keep the
course we're on.” He looked worried.
“You don’t think we ought to turn a few
points, sir?”

“ Andlethim get away? No! Carryon!”

The chief of staff shrugged his shoulders,
turned his glasses on the three battleships
that, slightly ahead of them, were aiming,
as they themselves were aiming, straight
for the dense smother of smoke. The enemy
aircraft had passed across in frorit of them,
were now swerving round on their star-
board beam in a wide circle.

“They're going to try to bomb us, after
all,” remarked the admiral.

The chief of staff did not answer. He
was anxiously watching those three consort
ships. The first of them was just disappear-
ing into the smoke cloud, the second fol-
lowed, was swallowed up, the third likewise
vanished. He listened intently for the
crash of their guns, could not distinguish
whether they fired or not in the deafening
concussion of their own. The wall of smcke
loomed across just ahead of them, as high
almost as the masthead. The sharp point of
their bow drove into it. It came rolling over
the deck, over the turrets, came in through
the slit of the conning tower straight against
their faces, a strange smell.

The admirai lurched onto him, just as he
turned to shout an order in wild alarm,
knocked him down, dizzily, chokingly, into
blackness ——

High up in the control top, the gunnery
officer had loosed off a last salvo just before
they entered that smoke cloud. He sat
with the telephone earpieces clamped to
his head, his hands on the levers while
they drove through it. The ship below him
was hidden in the wreathing dark-brown
fumes. Those fellows laid a pretty broad
belt, he thought. He glanced up at the
enemy aeroplanes. They were circling round
to rear of them, near the carrier. He won-
dered when they were going to start their
bomb attack.

Absorbed in keeping on that distant tar-
get, he had not noticed that fine rain which
had dropped from them as they had passed
over the smoke cloud. He lifted his binocu-
lars to his eyes again, got a glimpsed view
over and through the smother to those re-
mote enemy ships. He noticed suddenly
that there was a peculiar silence. Every-
one seemed to have ceased fire. Why

October 17,1925

weren’t the other ships firing? They ought
to be through the smoke screen now. He
turned his glasses in their direction, could
distinguish the control top of the nearest
one high above the smother. Someone in
it was waving his arms. Ah, thank heaven!
They were driving out of the fog. Now for
the finish to those enemy battleships before
the aircraft could interpose. They were
once more in clear air.

Behind him the range taker began once
more to intone figures. But, curiously,
there was no voice in his ears enunciating,
as for half an hour it had been enunciating,
the corrected ranges from the transmitting
station. Why? What was the matter?
Startled and disturbed, he glanced at the
indicators from the turrets. Not one of
them had recovered to the ready. What on
earth had happened?

He looked over the bulwark at the clear
sea ahead. The three sister battleships were
still driving forward, but steering wildly,
erratically, strangely. Their guns were in-
comprehensibly silent. All the other ships
of their own fleet that had passed through
the smoke screen in advance of them were
likewise steering wildly, some of them in
circles. All alike were silent. That silence
was uncanny. Hesprang to his feet, turned
to a junior officer, spoke with a curious
anger that covered a spasm of fear he would
not acknowledge to himself.

“Get through to the conning tower!” he
ordered.

The young officer tried--tried repeatedly.

“No answer, sir,” he reported.

“Try the turrets—all of them.”

The young officer obeyed—obeyed finally
with the exasperated shouting of a man en-
deavoring to communicate by a telephone
that is cut off at the exchange.

“No answer from any of them, sir,”” he
said at last, looking up with a scared face.

“Try the engine rooms—try every-
where—there must be someone alive on
this damned ship!" the officer shouted at
him.

While his junior obeyed, he turned again
to look at the sea ahead. The ship was stil!
racing at full speed through the leaping
waves, but yawing fantastically, as her
predecessors were still yawing. Half a
dozen destroyers were rushing at them from
the direction of the enemy. Not a shot was
fired at them from any of those wildly
steering ships. The gunnery officer raged in
a fury that was half unacknowledged panic,
half professional exasperation. If only he
could get his guns onto that facile target!
If he didn’t, they’d be torpedoed in a min-
ute! No! Those fellows weren’t going to
fire torpedoes, were coming boldly straight
on. Three of them diverged to the other
battleships.

The junior officer reported:

“No answer from any part of the ship,
sir.”

The men in that control top looked at
one another, speechless in an awful fear
that blanched their faces. What appalling
disaster had happened?

The gunnery officer turned to answer a
hail from below and alongside. An enemy
destroyer was swinging round close te them
with the deft turn of a taxicab coming to
the curb, a figure upon her diminutive
bridge shouting at them through a mega-
phone, The word caine clearly.

“Surrender!”

The gunnery officer shook his fist at him.

“Go to hell!”

The figure on the destroyer’s bridge re-
moved the megaphone from his face,
grinned at him, shouted again through the
funnel.

“Don’t be stupid! You can’t resist. I
don’t want to murder you.”

He gestured significantly to the gun just
forward of his bridge. It swung round,
pointing upward to the control top. The
gunnery officer raged impotently.

“What infernal thing has happened to
this ship?” he yelled. “What's happened
to everybody?”

The officer on the destroyer grinned again
before he answered.

“They're all dead.”

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

Copyright, 1925, The Fisk Tire Co., Ine,

A reproduction of this design in full color will be sent free on request. The Fisk Tire Company, Inc., Chicopee Falls, Mass.

i’, A. KOLSTER

For eight years he was
head of the Radio Sec-
tion of the United States
Bureau of Standards.

He invented the
Kolster Radio Compass
for Navy and Passenger
ships.

The staff which he
heads built most of the
United States Navy
Radio Stations,

This internationally
famous organization con-
centrates all its expe-
rience in Kolster Radio.

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

Clone Ranks First

How a great staff of radio experts—the organization
which built most of the United States Navy Stations —
solved America’s great problem: perfected reproduction

With international fame in radio devel-
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F, T. C. engineers, experts in commer-
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F. T. C. engineers built the world’s
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This they have done. Kolster radio,
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Yesterday’s problem was reception.
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Distance alone no longer has its charm.
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KOLSTER

Kolster Six. Dual
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October 17,1925

i

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

Radio Enjoyment

F. A. Kolster and his able associates offer 1925’s sen-
sation: rare tonal advancement, the new-day ideal in
radio. Reproduction such as you’ve never heard before

Up to now reception has been the thrill
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Kolster Six. Dual
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To hear a Kolster is to revise your
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Hear a Kolster. Get a new thrill. But
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Woolworth Building, New York City

Kolster Eight. Single
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The secret is in Kolster per
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157

a

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

Why is this new delicacy
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JeWawanlORE than one mother has said
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October 17,1925

“Where else is there to drink it? The
Frenchman consumes wine. A Frenchman
drinking beer in public would be hanged by
a patriotic crowd to the nearest lamp-post
as a British spy. Germans drink a sweet
beverage which they call beer, but it is of
exclusively German manufacture. Russians
I grant to be never sober, but they are
drunk on vodka. Italians consume quanti-
ties of rough wine. As to Spain Do
they drink beer in Spain, Ann-Dolly?”

“T don’t know,” said Ann-Dolly. “ What
is beer?”

Behind me I could hear James Carabine
stop in his buttling and draw in his breath
hissingly, as a man does when hit in a vital
spot. For myself, I just let my head fall on
my chest, and I groaned.

“The very name of beer,” said my Uncle
Valentine, “is unknown to Spain, and prob-
ably to Portugal too. In America, the wine
of the country is rye whisky. Swedes,
Danes, Finns are addicted to schnapps,
whereas the adipose Hollander’s only bev-
erage is gin. The Mohammedans are tee-
totalers, whence the various tribal troubles
in Afghanistan and Egypt.”

“But in Ireland, sir?”

“In Ireland whisky is drunk. When
whisky is not drunk, porter is. Stout and
whisky. Baptists drink water.”

“But I’ve seen beer drunk in Ireland,
sir.”

“Oh, yes, Kerry,”’ granted my Uncle
Valentine, “you have seen beer drunk as a
phenomenon, but you have never seen beer
drunk as a drink.”

Well, hang it, you can’t argue with a
man like that!

The truth of the matter was that my
Cousin Jenico was becoming most putridly
rich, though riches were ascribed to him
that weren’t his at all. A week before, I had
been down to Strabane, and an old lawyer,
John Cornish, there had mentioned to me
a legacy of fifty thousand pounds that was
coming to Jenico.

“Begor, Mr. Kerry, but some people
have the luck of the world!”

“Where is the money coming from? I’ve
heard nothing of it.”

“’Tis from a cousin of his father’s, a
Grant that went to America, and from
whom nothing was ever heard. He died
with this money, and your Cousin Jenico is
next of kin.”

“Thanks for telling me, Cornish.
going to get it out of him.”

There are queer spots in Ireland—queer,
dark, unhealthy spots; and I don’t mean
unhealthy in a physical sense, but in a
mental, or spiritual one. I don’t know
exactly how to describe it. But one of these
places is a large island called Tonamora—
Great Waves in the English language.
Tonamora is about ten miles square, very
fertile. People say that the Tonamora men
are Spaniards, descendants of the survivors
of the great Armada; but that, to my mind,
and I know Ireland as well as any man, is
sheer tripe. They are tall, spare, leather-
faced men, with a taciturn temperament
and cold slate-green eyes. The rare fishery
inspector or policeman who lands there is
told by them that they have no English.
That is a lie. Whence they came, God
only knows. They are as much at home on
the sea as an ordinary farmer on‘dry land.
Tonamora men can always find a billet as
boatswain or quartermaster on no matter
how big a ship. They see the world. They
come back to Tonamora.

The race—Egyptian, Barbary corsair,
Sidonian, God knows what—has a diabol-
ical vitality. When new blood is wanted
girls are stolen from the mainland. After a
week, when they are discovered, they don’t
wish to go back. The Tonamora man will
marry them.

Father Malachi goes to Tonamora once
a month in acurrach to celebrate his liturgy
there. Father Malachi is a saint and a gen-
tleman. But for days after his monthly
visit he is white and shaken.

I’m

(Continued from Page 31)

When Father Malachi has gone they take
from its hiding place the Neevogg—the
Sacred One—and put it on its niche in the
living rock, on the ocean side of the island,
and to it they sacrifice a goat. And they may
sacrifice worse than a goat to it, for within
a dozen years a dozen children have been
missing from the mainland. A revenue
officer who had landed in secrecy and lay in
hiding says it is the figurehead of an an-
cient ship, a black man, with a crown on
his head, . . . Myself, from a sloop, with
glasses, have seen the Tonamora folk dance
in a ring on the strand, naked, around
something on Midsummer Eve.

Well, if any man wishes to deny God, it’s
his own business, so long as he doesn’t kick
up a fuss about it. But putting up an
image and sacrificing to it is another thing.
There are too many demons going about
the world looking for homes. There’s many
a one will deny a God, but there’s no man
who has seen anything of the world will
deny a devil.

I want to see Tonamora bought into the
family from the English landlord, who
knows nothing about it, wouldn’t believe it
if he were told, and probably doesn’t even
know where the place is. I want to see us
bring our private clergyman there, whether
he is a priest of the Coptic rite or a Seventh
Day Adventist; it doesn’t matter. I want
to see the Neevogg burned. I want every
death, every marriage, accounted for. I
want two policemen, even though private
policemen of our own, there. I’m not so
sure that I don’t want a triangle and cat
too. There’s a good deal to be said for
feudalism. Modern law supposes that the
power of darkness has been wiped out of
material strongholds these hundreds of
years. It hasn’t.

I tackled Jenico immediately.

“What’s this I hear about fifty thousand

nds?”

“Hey?” said Jenico, startled.

“T hear you’ve been left fifty thousand
by a relative of your dad’s. Listen, Jenico,
I want you to buy Tonamora.”

““Tonamora?”’

“Yes, Tonamora. Neither the landlord
nor the government will do anything about
it. I think we ought to handle it ourselves.
We can beat civilization and decency into
those wild skulls. What do you think,
Jenico?”

“T think it would be splendid.”

“Well, buy it.”

He hummed and hawed a bit; walked
around; looked uncomfortable.

“The truth is, Kerry ——-”’ he began.

“What? Haven't got a legacy?”

“No; it’s a mistake.”

“Damn! Well, if you haven’t you
can’t.”” But I decided the next time I met
John Cornish there’d be a row. I hate to
have my hopes raised and then dashed to
the ground again. Also, I could see Jenico
was disappointed. He seemed so put out.

He kept on visiting us every night at
Destiny Bay, though what pleasure it was
to him I cannot understand. There he sat,
dumb as a fish, looking at Ann-Dolly as
though she were some weird exhibit. There
was Ann-Dolly looking at him when he
wasn’t looking at her. There was a con-
straint between them. One night I saw him
on his way home—‘“ past the gander,” as
we say, a bit of the lane. He asked what
“Carrickore’’ meant—the big rock with a
cave in it near Spanish Men’s Rest.

“Tt means Golden Rock.”

“Would it have anything to do with the
Armada treasure, Kerry?”

“Nothing,” I said. “It comes from the
look of the rock when the sun shines on it,
the quartz in it and the sands about it.
When the sun is setting, from certain angles
it looks like a mass of gold.”

“That seems to me very fanciful, Kerry,”
he argued, for he would argue—that was
the Scottish in him. “What with the
legend of gold and the cavern and what
not ——

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

SPANISH MEN’S REST

“Listen, Jenico. If gold had been found
there they'd call it the Gold Rock. They
wouldn't call it Gold Rock if treasure were
to be found there. It’s a question of ex-
perience.”

“T see your point,” conceded Jenico.
“Still and all ——

The next night, when he was over, I men-
tioned it.

“Jenico thinks,” I said, “that treasure
might possibly be found at Carrickore.”

“Hut!” said my Uncle Valentine. ‘The

’ daft!”

“Oh, no”’—I thought that was going too
far—‘“‘ just soft-like.””

“What I meant was’—Jenico red-
dened—‘“it would be a pleasant idea. If
money were there, it would be, of course, a
jolly nice surprise for—ah—Ann-Dolly.”

Ann-Dolly worked herself up suddenly
into a temper most beautiful to see.

“Ah—Ann-Dolly,” she mimicked him,
“doesn’t want any Spanish treasure. Ah—-
Ann-Dolly is quite content as she is. If Sir
Valentine and Aunt Jenepher will let her
stay with them forever-—-ah—Ann-Dolly
will be quite happy, for outside them—
ah—Ann-Dolly doesn’t give a tinker’s dam
for anyone,

Except Kerry, whom I like a |

little, and James Carabine, whom I like |

very much, the rest,”’ said Ann-Dolly, “can
go to hell.” And she swept out of the room
like some slim young Amazon.

We laughed. My Uncle Valentine gave |

that great roar of his that is like a bull of
Bashan’s, and I contributed my own full
belling note, Even my Aunt Jenepher, who
is ever smiling but laughs rarely, gave that

precious silver trill of hers. But Jenico was |

silent, distressed, as though he didn’t un-

derstand it at all. But then Jenico could be |
a glum blighter when the mood was on him. |

“Now who the devil,” said my Uncle
Valentine, wiping his eyes, “has been
teaching that young woman the Irish lan-
guage?”

xu

UTUMN had come to us like some grave

tanned traveler. A hush; the flutter of |

a leaf; the purple departing from the
heather. The Michaelmas daisies showed
up gallantly, and the geese were wondering
why everyone was paying so much atten-
tion to them and increasing their rations.
The full moon of October rose in the Irish
sky, so vast, so near, that you could shut
your eyes and think: ‘‘ A few steps, a hell of
a jump, and I can catch the rim of it and
swing through it into that country of which
Grimm tells tales.’”” There is such magic in
the October moon. It glints over the sea
and makes a floor of gold there. The cliffs
are vaguely blue in it, and the shore be-
comes a silver street, and what the moun-
tains are dreaming of is past imagining.
The trees of Destiny Bay in the moonlight
throw a marvelous pattern on the grass, the

lacework of the apple and pear trees, the |

vast mushroom the copper beech makes,
the shifting of the shadows of the elm trees
as the wind moves them. And there is the
mysterious alley of the yews, where as
likely as not you will meet our Georgian
Gentleman, in knee breeches and tri-
cornered hat, under the October moon.
You can lean against the bole of our copper
beech in that month's moon, and your soul
will go out of you when you close your eyes,
and learn high courageous things from the
mountains which words are not equal to.
The October moon had wrought its
sweet magic on Ann-Dolly, so that she
could not remain out of the apple garden.
My Uncle Valentine had gone to Derry on
some business of the grand jury, and Jenico
had walked over from Spanish Men’s Rest,
so that she brought him into the garden of
the silver trees. Myself, it is a great hard-
ship on me that I have little time for the
October moon, At summer’s end there is
the big activity of harvest, and it is a tradi-

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(Continued on Page 161)

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(Continued from Page 159)

of the earth you must give it kindliness.
There was the skillful stacking of corn to be
looked to, the steeping and drying of the
flax, the potatoes for next year’s seeding to
be built carefully into their pits, the cot-
tages of the Irish Village to be examined lest
they need thatching against the coming
winter. Even the humble mangel-wurzel
has intricacies of culture.

There were a thousand things and one
thing.

So this October night I spent at accounts
in the gun room, with the red setters before
the red turf fire. When the work was fin-
ished I stayed there thinking of the winter
coming when all would be holiday. Fox
hunting, the roads like iron, the sally
hedges rising out of the mist, and riding
home in the evening with a moon like a
steel mirror in the sky. The steeplechasing
at Baldoyle and Leopardstown, and Punch-
estown and Fairyhouse in spring. And
coursing for hares, puss cunning as a fox,
eluding, fooling the flying greyhounds.
Drawing of badgers with the game blue
terrier. It is only in cities that winter is
dull.

The old clock in the hall had rumbled out
eleven when the door of the gun room
opened and Ann-Dolly came in. She
helped herself to a cigarette, lit it, and went
and sat by vhe fireplace.

“Where’s Jenico?” I asked.

“Gone home,” she said.

She seemed to have a serious fit on, sit-
ting there and looking at the fire. She could
be a very grave beautiful woman when that
mood was on her.

I wondered what she was thinking about.
Spain? Or the curious chance that had led
her to Destiny Bay?

She was not thinking of the future. I
knew that, for when a person thinks of the
future the soul, which is usually about its
private affairs, or is sleeping, comes to the
surface in them, and peers as a lady from a
battlement will peer.

She turned from the fire and looked at
me—her grave look, her deep grave look.

“If you got the opportunity, Kerry,
would you kiss me?”

And I had been thinking of her as rumi-
nating over the heavenly mysteries!

“Is that a request to be courted, Ann-
Dolly, or is it an academic question?”

“It’s a what-you-say question.”

“Well,” I considered, “I might and I
mightn’t. If I had a lot of bookmaker’s
money in my pocket, and a song at the end
of my tongue, and nothing on my mind, it
would be a grand way of passing an hour
after dinner. It would be like listening to
a good man on the pipes or watching a
pleasant unimportant horse race. But if
I had a high mood on, the way I'd be think-
ing I understood why the stars were in
their courses, and the language of the trees,
and knew distinctly that I was immortal
and why, then I consider kissing a girl an
abominable vulgarity, not to be considered
by a person of my spiritual standing. If I
were just as I am ordinarily with my horses
and dogs, and a good belief in myself as my
own best companion, I wouldn’t give you
the satisfaction of my knowing you had a
mouth on you.”

“But if you loved me, Kerry.”

“That's different. But again,” I said,
“I might and I mightn’t. If I kept think-
ing that you had a grand pair of eyes, and
long slim legs and a well-shaped head and
well-shaped hands, then I’d probably be
for kissing you every time I could lay a
hand on you. But if I started blathering to
myself about your soul, and thinking about
you to myself as the drift of white haw-
thorn, or the swan on the lake, I wouldn’t
kiss you at all. I'd stand off and admire
you,”

“Then if you were very much in love
with me you wouldn’t offer to kiss me?”

She sat there, unrolling this ridiculous
thesis as gravely as though she were dis-
cussing the dangers of home rule.

“T wouldn’t. I’d be too much in awe of
you to try. But, Ann-Dolly, I may as well
tell you, it isn’t for that reason that I don’t

THE SATURDAY

kiss you. I like you, but I don’t give a
tinker’s curse for you that way.”

“Sure I know that, Kerry,” she uttered
gravely.

“Then,” I said, “what the devil are you
asking me for?”’

“Because,” she said, “I like what-do-
you-call-’em questions.”

“My girl,”’ I told her, “you're getting
morbid. You want some good reading. I'll
give you a couple of books.”

“Oh, yes, I know,” she said, “‘the Bible
and Ruff’s Aimanac of the Turf.”

“Well,” I said, “find me two healthier
ones,”

xt

MUST tell now of the shadow that fell

between me and my Cousin Jenico. I
had gone down to Strabane for some reason
or other and for the second time had run
into old John Cornish, the solicitor who had
told me about Jenico’s windfali. He was as
decent an old chap as there was in the prov-
ince, red-faced, white-haired, dressed in
tweeds and a deerstalker wound about with
the catgut of fishing flies.

“Just a minute, Mr. Honey!” I hailed
him. “ Aren’t you the damnedest liar from
hell to Haulbowline!”

“Do you mean that, Mr. Kerry, or is it
just a manner of speech?”

“’Tisn’t a lie exactly,” I said; “‘it’s a
mistake, more or less. Do you remember
telling me that Jenico Grant yot a for-
tune?”

bad | do.”

“Well, it isn’t true.”

“Who says it isn’t?” asked John Cornish.

“Jenico himseif.”’

The old man, who had been laughing,
flushed at this.

“I’m a pretty old man, Mr. Kerry.”

“Sure; what’s that got to do with it?”’

“Just this: When you've lived as long as
I have, and tried to be straight as long as I
have, you'll not relish being called a liar
behind your back.”

“Who's blaming you? It was a mis-
take.”

“Mr. Kerry, I’m not Mr. Jenico Grant’s
lawyer, so that I can say anything I like
about him, provided it’s true. Now I’m a
person of substance in this town, and I’m
a lawyer, and I say this’’—he shook with
anger: ‘‘Between Mr. Jenico Grant and
me, one of us is a damned liar—and it
isn’t me.”

Well, I thought, that’s funny. Why did
Jenico tell me that? As between him and
John Cornish, I never hesitated for a
minute as to which was telling the truth.
Jenico might be my cousin and my good
friend, but John Cornish’s word was Bible.
I could no more think of John Cornish
making a mistake, when he was as serious
as that, than I could of the sun forgetting
to rise. If John Cornish said Jenico got a
windfall of fifty thousand pounds—well,
Jenico got it, that was all. Now that I
came to think of it, he had looked a bit
sheepish when I mentioned it. His replies
about Tonamora had not the quick quality
of honesty. But why? If he hadn’t
wanted to buy Tonamora, why hadn’t he
said so straight out and told me to go to
blazes when I argued, as any northern man
should have. God knows he had money
enough, with the brewery and what not, to
be comfortable always. He didn’t need
this windfall.

Also it occurred to me Jenico had been
getting a little queer this while back. In
Ireland, when a person becomes a little
queer, it’s just as well to have your eye on
him. There is something in the air. Also
there is loneliness.

It is a good thing to live among mountains
and by sea air; but it is a good thing, too,
to quit that for a month every now and
then, and get into streets full of men and
women, and use an ordinary urban speech.
With most of our friends, when they go
queer, we can manage.

But when a man begins liking money for
its own sake I don’t know what can be
done with him. There is a meanness at
which you laugh, like the ehap’s who gives
a threepenny tip to a cabman after a

EVENING POST

ten-shilling ride. There is also a closeness
about money which can be pathetic, as that
of people who have suffered abominable
sordidness of poverty at one time, and now
that they have money are afraid to part
with it lest gray foul days come on them
again. But the mad vice of the miser, for
whom each gold coin becomes alive, a sort
of demon that can be released to do his
bidding, his money being his familiar, and
who is as secretive about it as a necroman-
cer is about his familiar—if these things
exist, which God forbid, I don’t think there
can be any vice as cold, as hard to under-
stand.

And yet they exist, these strange people;
the squire dressed in a threadbare green
coat who will not have fires lit in winter,
and the millionaire who walks rather than
spend money on a tramcar, the student
who grudges himself a penny candle.
Drink, women, murder, we can understand,
and drugs a little, a very little. And to all
these folk our charity goes, but none have a
good word in their hearts for the miser. It
is like black magic, a cold vice—an aloof,
a dark vice,

I might be wrong, of course, and I'd be
very glad if I were. But even apart from
the meanness about money, Jenico had
done an unforgivable thing to a clansman
and a friend. He had lied. That circle of
us all, my Uncle Valentine, my Aunt Jene-
pher, my Cousin Jenico, and the country-
side relatives and friends—all had been like
a walled city in mutual trust. Even Ann-
Dolly I would trust with my life. And
Jenico had made a break in the wall. Damn
him! I said to myself, “‘Why couldn’t he
have told me to mind my own business, or
simply go to the devil? That’s what a
friend does.”

When I came home Ann-Dolly met mein
the hall.

“Was Jenico in Strabane?” she asked.

“Damn Jenico!”

“What's wrong, Kerry?” She came
close and put her hand on my shoulder, and
her voice was solicitous and kind. She had
so many moods, had Ann-Dolly. She never
made a mistake as to your feelings. She
knew.

You could always depend on Ann-Dolly
to do the right thing.

“It’s only my rotten temper, Ann-Dolly.
There’s nothing wrong.”

But I could see she wasn’t satisfied, al-
though she said nothing more.

xIV

HAD turned out at five that morning,

for I had to ride down to Forty-Acre.
Carabine had rustled breakfast for me in
the kitchen, and I had swung into the
saddle and started cantering along the
cliffs. The sun had not quite risen, for all
the chatter of the birds in the trees, and
there was that sense you get by the sea that
it was low tide. Back of me Green River
trickled its crystal depths into the Atlantic,
and as I turned the headland I looked down
on the shore, near Spanish Men’s Rest. At
Carrickore I saw a huge cart on the sands,
and the figures of men.

“What the blazes can that be?” I said to
myself, for I had never seen a cart on the
sands there before.

My Cousin Jenico has riparian rights
there. None can remove the sand without
his permission. But I had never seen any-
one attempt to. The dulce gatherers, the
men who collect seaweed for fertilizing the
fields, use donkeys and creels, before sun-
rise and at low water. I threw my leg over
the horse’s neck and slid down.

“I'd better look into this,”’ I said, and I
picketed the moke.

There’s a short cut down the cliff, if
you’ve a clear head and steady feet. Now
you’ve got to touch stones as gently as if
you were touching eggs, and then you've
got to swing all your weight on the broom
shrubs. There’s a drop of twelve feet on the
end, but it’s on sand. It’s just a nice
warming-up exercise. I alighted gently and
strolled around the cliff.

The cart itself was a brewer's lorry, out
of Jenico’s own brewery in Louth, and the

161

Phoenix

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4

EVENING POST

horses attached were shire geldings, power-
ful, beautifully feathered animals. For a
moment it came to me that Jenico was do-
ing business with the smugglers, of whom
we've always had a few, running French
brandy from Bordeaux in fishing smacks.
That has been a small commerce with the
local inns, but if Jenico had gone in for it on
a big scale-——- The cart had nothing in it,
unless something were concealed by the
piece of sacking.

There was the seashore, with the Atlantic
breaking on it gently, very gently. There
the fish hawks had set out to sea, looking
for mackerel, and an old eagle, from the
Donegal mountains likely, was waiting a
few hundred yards off for the fish hawk to
come in with his catch so he could take it
from him. There he stood huddled, pa-
tient, on the sand. Here was Carrickore,
the Golden Rock, with its opening like a
cave into the underworld. Out of the cave
came two men. They were vast, heavy,
stupid men. They wore the high-glazed
brewery hats, the padded-sleeved brewery
waistcoats, Jenico must have brought them
all the way from Louth. Damned secre-
tive, the whole thing!

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

They said nothing. They looked at each
other guardedly. They looked at the open-
ing of the cave. They looked at something
on the sand near the cave mouth. What
they looked at were three bars, like short
crowbars, heavy, metallic. But they hadn’t
got the black of crowbars. They were yel-
low like the sand.

“Did you hear me speak to you? What
are you doing here?”

They shuffled; looked uneasy; said
nothing. At the sound of my voice Jenico
came out of the cavern opening.

“What hell’s business is this, Cousin
Jenico?” I asked.

He became white and red; alternately
red with embarrassment and white with a
fear of discovery.

*Tt’s a private business,”’ he answered.

“So private evidently that it’s got to be
done when few Christian souls are stirring.
What are these?” And I walked across to
the crowbars.

“Don’t touch those!”
sharply.

I paid no attention. I stooped down for
one. [am astrong man, but I could hardly
lift it. As I stood bowed there I got chilled.
I straightened up.

“Damn you!” I said quietly to Jenico.

I went toward the cave.

“Keep out!” said Jenico.

“Stand aside!"

He made no movement to do it.

“Remember,” he said quietly, “this
beach is my property.”

“There are a few words I want to say to
you, Jenico. Send your men and dray off,
and tell them to keep away.”

“Get off down the beach,” Jenico told
them, ‘‘and don’t turn up until I call.”

They disappeared around the cliff side
and left us alone.

“Well?” said Jenico warily.

“So, not contented to be a liar,” I told
him, “you must become a stinking sneak
thief. You picked a soft one, too—an un-
fortunate orphan girl without kith or kin.
Well, have you nothing to say?”

“You don’t understand,” said Jenico.

“I understand well enough,”’ I told him.
“There's little MacFarlane in you. The
cheap Scotch horse coper.”

Hé went white with cold anger and fury.

“Are you mad?” he cried.

“T’m not mad.”

“Then if you’re not mad,” he said
quietly, “you’re going to get the damned-
est beating for that it would be possible to
receive.”

He quietly took off his coat.

“Good enough!"’ And I pitched mine on
thesand. ‘“‘Anytimeyou’re ready,” I said.

And there on the sands of Destiny Bay,
while the sun was rising and the birds
singing and the old eagle waited for the fish
hawk to bring him his breakfast, Jenico
Grant and I fought as I never want to fight
again,

said Jenico

October 17,1925

Given a regulation ring, padded posts
and gloves, I don’t think my Cousin Jenico
could have laid a hand on me, what with such
sound principles of boxing as James Cara-
bine had instilled into me. He is a smallish
man, Jenico, a good two stone lighter than
I, but fast as lightning, compact, hard to
catch. If you want to see Jenico at his
best, you should see him on a football field,
elusive to tackle, hard as nails. Myself, I
am loosely built, fair, and in boxing I
rather look like and box like that paragon
of style, Billy Wells. Of course, nothing so
finished as that; but what I mean—the low
guard, the straight left and right cross,
school of Sayers. There we stcod on the
sands, myself as though in a ring, Jenico
poised on his toes, hands close to his sides,
just looking cold, calm fury.

He was at me like a driven golf ball.
Mechanically I hooked right and left to his
head as he came in. I discovered that box-
ing with bare hands and boxing with
gloves are two different matters. My
knuckles seemed to have been driven back
into my palms. Jenico drove three stiff
punches into my short ribs. I chopped him
viciously on the neck and shoved him back.
Jenico was breathing savagely through his
nose. His head was down, his elbows in to
his sides. I caught him a pretty jab on the
right eye; but he was inside me before I
could stop him, driving short-arm punches
that didn’t exactly hurt, but through the
bruises of which vitality seemed to ooze.
Suddenly with a left swing he caught me
heavily on the thrapple, to use the only
word I know for that spot, a punch that
shook the inner me in its envelope of flesh
and bone. I shook him off, and noticed
that in the outrageous white of his face his
right eye was beginning to assume a pretty
plumlike color, halfway between red and
blue.

It struck me if I were going to win this
I'd better get to work. I steadied down and
began to plug at him with long left leads to
head, and when I got close enough, a hefty
bang with the right to the body. I worked
him close into the rocks to finish him, but
he danced lightly away; and as I moved
around to get him into hitting focus again,
he was at me with a rush, and a vicious
right hander opened my face on the cheek
bone like a split greengage. I tell you that
worried me.

But the next minuteI got him. He poised
himself for another rush, and as he came I
straightened out the left with everything I
had behind it. It caught him smack. Cara-
bine in his heyday could not have timed it
better.

“That'll hold you!” I said.

He stood there teetering on his heels, his
hands uncertain.

“And this'll finish you!” And I let him
have the right on the point.

He dropped as if he had been pole-axed.
There he lay, stiff, his hands clenched, his
eyes glassy, breathing stertorously through
set teeth. It was the perfect hush-a-by,
baby, though I says it myself as done it.

I walked off and into the cave, a bit
groggily; and picking up the candle some-
one had left there, I went in. I lit up, and
in the distance I could see a pile of sand. I
went up to it, and nearly fell into the hole
over a pile of the yellow bars. There was
an open iron box down in the sand, with
bars in it too,

I suppose I ought to have had a thrill,
looking at the old Armada treasure; but I
didn’t. There was no feeling of it, if you
know what I mean. It might just have
been a butter firkin. Even an old book, not
a century printed, will give you a sense of
antiquity; but this didn’t. I lowered the
lid of the box. It looked old—it looked old
as blazes, if you follow me—but it felt new.
Great flakes of red rust and what not and
strong! That box would have held the
crown jewels! And the bars of gold might
be the proceeds of the looting of Yucatan,
but they might be, too, from the vaults of
the Bank of England.

“This isn’t hell’s business,” I said to my-
self, “but it’s a funny business.”

(Continued on Page 165}

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(Continued from Page 162)

I opened the box again, and as I ran my
fingers’ along the inside of the lid I felt a
little piece of paper, like a label. I had to
get down on my back and put my head into
the hole to see it; but when I did it was
worth it. With the candle’s light I made
out: Wm. Moore & Son, Aston Quay, Dub-
lin. Trunkmakers to His Excellency the
Viceroy of Ireland. The laugh I let out of
me was intensified by the cave until it
sounded as if Destiny Bay itself were giving
vent to a vast Gargantuan roar.

I went down the strand to where Jenico
was sitting up. The tide had risen and
tickled the back of his neck, and brought
him to. I helped him to his feet.

“I’m sorry, Jenico, for calling you a liar
and a thief. I should have known better;
and as for your father, he was as fine a
sportsman as ever wore silk. But it’s the
mercy of God I came down here this
morning.”

“How?” said Jenico.

“Tf word had come out that treasure-
trove had been found here, don’t you know
that some official would have seized it for
the King’s Majesty? And then you'd have
had to explain, and you’d have been the
laughingstock of the Three Kingdoms. A
thing like that can never be kept quiet.
Aren’t you the lucky fellow I came along
here this morning!”

“Am I?” said Jenico.
broken my nose?”’

“TI couldn’t tell you for sure,” I an-
swered. ‘‘As a matter of fact, I can’t see
anything of your face clearly except your
ears. We'll know later.”

“Well, if you have itself,” said Jenico,
and he looked at my split cheek, “you'll
carry my mark on you till the day you
die.”

Which I call ungrateful of Jenico.

“Have you

xv

HAD to get four stitches in my cheek,

and my Uncle Valentine viewed it as he
might view some new phenomenon.

“It’s none of my business,” said my
Unele Valentine, “but from sheer admira-
tion of the punch, who handed you that?”

‘Jenico did,”’ I said.

‘‘Begob, Kerry,” said my Uncle Valen-
tine, “I didn’t think he had it in him. My
opinion of that fellow’s gone up, I -couldn’t
tell you how far.” And at that he left it.
No further word passed his lips. A wise
man was my Uncle Valentine. But James
Carabine was furious.

“If you had only kept your left hand
straight out, with six inches for play, that
would never have happened to you!
What’s the use of my teaching at all if at
the first bare-knuckle bout you forget every-
thing I told you, and walk in to get punched
like a draper’s assistant?”’

But as to who left his mark on me, and
what it was all about, James Carabine was
incurious. That is a great virtue in north-
ern men. To Ann-Dolly I told a cock-and-
bull story about falling from my horse. But
my Aunt Jenepher was not so easily put off.

“Ann-Dolly told me you had fallen from
your horse and had your face cut, Kerry.”
She put her fingers on my arm and turned
her head toward me. It was incredible
that she could not see my face. “‘Who have
you been fighting with?”

“I had an argument with Jenico,” I said,
“but it’s all right. It was a mistake of
mine.”

“There is no bad blood between you and
Jenico?”

“Of course not, Aunt Jenepher. I was
just a fool.”

It might have passed over like that, and
none have known anything about it, but
for the village idiot. We are an old-
fashioned people in Destiny Bay, very at-
tached to ancient institutions. We keep up
the old-fashioned Christmas, the village
drunkard and the village idiot. It was the
village idiot, Willie John MclIlhagga, had
seen us from the cliffs and had given his
version of it to the town:

““My bould Mr. Kerry was taking his
morning’s trot on his horse, and my bould

Mr. Jenico was taking his morning’s walk
on his feet. And when he sees his cousin,
my bould Mr. Kerry goes down till the
strand.

“* And how are you, Kerry?’ says Mr.
Jenico.

“*T’m bravely,’ says Mr. Kerry, ‘and
how’s yourself?’

“*Och, I’m not too bad,’ says Mr. Jenico,
‘but I’m feeling the want of exercise.’

“**Sowl,’ says Mr. Kerry, ‘but I’m feel-
ing it myself. Will we go in and swim in the
bay?’

““*We've nothing till dry ourselves with
when we come out,’ says Mr. Jenico. ‘What
do you say if we throw the stone?’

**And where would you be finding a
stone on the sands?’ says Mr. Kerry. ‘Are
you for a bout of boxing, fighting and
bloody murder, and the man that’s first
knocked unconscious will pay the other a
pound?’

“*Heth, but I’m your man!’ says Mr.
Jenico.

““*My sweet fellow!’ says Mr. Kerry.

‘So they stand up to each other just like
the lion and the unicorn. Mr. Kerry is
leaping like the unicorn and Mr. Jenico is
growling like the lion.

“*Derry, Aughrim and the Boyne!’
screeches Mr. Kerry, and he catches Mr.
Jenico a belt on the gob would kill a
bullock.

“*Nosurrender!’ says Mr. Jenico, and he
lifts Mr. Kerry from his feet with a clout
on the chin.

“Mr. Kerry tries Corbett’s Favorite and
the Cornish Strangle, but Mr. Jenico is
there with the Glasgow Throttle and the
Executioner’s Delight. Och, hould your
tongue! Great scientific fighters, the pair
of them. Bathering and murder. And the
yells of them, the grand Protestant cries—
‘Derry Walls!’ and ‘Croppies, Lie Down!’
And then Mr. Jenico gives Mr. Kerry the
Foot and Slap and has him staggering.
Sowl, but I thought he was gone! But my
sweet Mr. Kerry is clever—as clever as
an otter, you might say. He makes a dash
for Mr. Jenico, swinging his foot, letting on
to foul him.

““*What are you up to?’ says Mr. Jenico,
and he drops his hands.

“*T’m up to this,’ says Mr. Kerry, and
he welts him one on the jaw you could hear
in Dublin. And Mr. Jenico drops on the
sand and his face turns black and he’s done
for.

“Mr. Kerry goes somewhere and sits
down for a while to rest and then comes
back and lifts Mr. Jenico to his feet.

***You’re bet,’ says he.

“*T’m bet, and you're the better man,
and here’s your pound note,’ says Mr. Jen-
ico.

“*You’re a natural country fighter, Jen-
ico, but strategy won,’ says Mr. Kerry.
And they went off with their arms around
each other, laughing and joking.

“Och, hould your tongue! The likes of
them aren’t in England, Ireland or Asia.
Grand men, and roaring, gaming fellows,
and great houlders with the ancient
customs. Aye, I’m fit for another pint,”
said Willie John MclIlhagga.

xvi

CAME up through the orchard with the

dogs behind me in the dusk. I was
whistling As I Rowed Out, and there among
the trees was Ann-Dolly in a dark frock,
her sweet head on its longish graceful neck
like a flower on a stem. I shall always think
of Ann-Dolly in the orchard of Destiny
Bay.

When the blue dusk descends, and I
anywhere, there comes to me the picture
of Ann-Dolly among the kindly old apple
trees, and the blue shadow of the moun-
tains between our old house and the setting
sun.

Sho came toward me and her face had
not the sweet gravity I had come to see in
it at that hour, but was strained and white
and had bister-colored shadows under her

es.
“Kerry,” she said, “I want you to tell
me something.”

THE SATURDAY

EVENING POST

“Tf it’s what will win at the Curragh this
week, Ann-Dolly, I’m hanged if I know.
I wish I did,” I said, ignorant-like.

“Tf it were only that!’ said Ann-Dolly.
Then she looked at me straight. “Kerry,
what were you fighting with Jenico about?”

“Who told you we were fighting at all?”
I asked.

“Everybody knows it.”

“Well,” I said, “it’s a hard thing if a
couple of relatives can’t take a belt at each
other without people making a song and
dance about it. It isn’t the first time we've
fought and it won’t be the last time. My
dear Ann-Dolly,”’ I said, “you don’t under-
stand us at all. Didn’t you ever hear of the
Irishman that was blue-molded for want of
a beating?” And I was for moving off.

“Please, Kerry!” She stopped me as I
was going. “Kerry, you know I think your
Uncle Valentine is the greatest gentleman
in the world.”

“It’s a big field, Ann-Dolly,” I said,
“and a long hard course; but he starts my
favorite.” ,

“And next to him and nearly beside him,
Kerry, I put you,”

“Are you daft, woman?”

“No,” she said, “I’m not. Kerry, you
wouldn't ever tell a lie, would you?”

‘Well, I don’t suppose I would,” I an-
swered. “I haven’t got brains enough to
think up a good one. And besides, it’s a bit
of a cowardly thing, isn’t it?”

“Then, Kerry,” she shot at me, “was
my name mentioned the morning you and
Jenico fought?”

I suppose I got red. It was the last thing
in the world I was expecting.

“We were talking about a lot of things,”
I said. “I can’t rightly remember.”

“Was it implied?”

“My dear Ann-Dolly,” I said, “if you
think we were fighting about you ———”

She said nothing. She came over and
took my hands.

“Kerry,” she said, “I want you to be
always, always, good friends with Jenico.”

“Sure, and amn’t I?”

“But I want you to promise, Kerry.”

“All right then,” I said. ‘There’s no
need to. I promise.”

She tiptoed and kissed me on the cheek.

“God bless you, Kerry,” she said. “I’m
very fond of you. You're a good friend, and
a brother.”

“Away with you, woman!”’ I said, but
she had fled through the garden. “Girls
are queer,” I thought, and I went in and
dressed. All that evening Ann-Dolly was
gay as a linnet. She went upstairs with my
Aunt Jenepher.

When I came in for breakfast next morn-
ing she was not at table.

““Where’s Ann-Dolly?”’ I asked.

My Aunt Jenepher said nothing, and
Carabine looked worried. My Uncle Val-
entine handed me a letter.

“Do you know anything about this,
Kerry?”

“Let me see, sir.”

It was a note from Ann-Dolly, saying a
great loneliness for Spain had come on her,
and that she had given in to it. She was
slipping away at night so as to avoid saying
good-by. Her love to Aunt Jenepher and
Uncle Valentine and Kerry, and she would
write. She would never forget us. The
letter became incoherent and blotted. It
looked to me as if she’d been crying.

“T think Ann-Dolly had the idea that
Jenico and I had a dispute about her. That
is not true—exactly. There was no reason
why she should have gone, sir.”

“Well, then, Kerry,” said my Uncle
Valentine, “what’s to be done?”’

When anything like this turns up at Des-_
tiny Bay, for some unknown reason I take
charge iminediately. My Uncle Valentine,
I’m sure, could do it all better than I could,
but then I’ve got a trick of snapping every-
body into action.

“She’s put on her old boy’s clothes,

Kerry,” said my Aunt Jenepher, “and I'm
sure she hasn’t a penny of money.”

“There’s a son of Robbie McGuckin’s
home from America with one of those new- |

fangled motor bicycles,’’ I told Carabine. |

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THE SATURDAY

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EVENING POST

“Have him sent hell-for-leather to the
station at Ballyneagh to see if anyone like
her turned up to take the train. It’s fifteen
miles there and back,” I said. ‘Tell him
he can go back to America if he doesn’t do
it in an hour and a half. Also, he’s to keep
an eye out on the road. I'll ride over to
Spanish Men’s Rest to see if anything's
been seen of her there. It’s unlikely she’d
leave without visiting her grandfather's

grave.

“Tt’sallright, Aunt Jenepher.”’ I stopped
to pat her hand. ‘“‘I’ll have that girl if I
have to comb Ireland.”

I saw Jenico standing by the old Spanish
graveyard. He had a great wedge of stick-
ing plaster across his nose. He looked like
some member of a secret society in a mask.
A great chill and forlornness fell on me as
I rode up. Never did I feel the shadow on
Spanish Men’s Rest so heavy before.

“Well, Kerry?” said Jenico. ‘‘Do you
know,” he went on without giving me a
chance to speak, ‘I saw a ghost here this
morning.”

“How do you know it was a ghost?”

,” he answered, ‘do you know any-
body who would go into Spanish Men’s
Rest at four in the morning on a waning
moon?”

“What did it look like?”

“Tt was like a boy or a small man,”
Jenico answered. “‘I was awake and came
to the window. There was a cloud across the
moon, but I saw it as distinctly as I see
you, going across to the old duke’s grave.”

“I wish you’d gone and spoken to it,”
I said.

“TI did,” he laughed. “I went down to
the gun room and slid a couple of car-
tridges into an express, and banged a couple
of charges of buckshot across, It roused
the house, but I could get nobody to come
with me. When I dressed and went into
the field I could find no one there. There’s
no trace of blood this morning, so it must
have been a ghost.”

“You fool!” I shouted.
have killed her!”

“Killed whom?”

“ Ann-Dolly.”

“Oh, my God!” said Jenico. He be-
came white, and had to sit down, so shaken
he was. “But she’s all right?”

“T don’t know.”

“How don’t you know, Kerry? Isn’t she
at Destiny Bay?”

“She’s not,” I told him.
away in the night.”

I never saw a man so taken aback. You
might have thought that the sun had re-
versed its course and was returning east-
ward at noon, to see the stunned look on his
face,

“If you're going to have the hysterics,

“You might

“She’s run

| Jenico,” I told him, “you're no kind of use

to me. If you’re not, you might have that
American pacer of yours hitched to the
dogeart and follow me to Destiny Bay. I
need speed.”’ I gathered Pelican’s leathers
and dug my heels into his ribs. “‘Hup, you
pig ! ”

At Destiny Bay my Uncle Valentine and
James Carabine were awaiting me.

“She was seen at Spanish Men’s Rest at
four this morning,”’ was all I told them.
‘Any word from the station yet?”

“Nothing at the station,” said my Uncle
Valentine.

“If Miss Ann-Dolly wanted to get away,
please Your Honor,” said James Carabine,
“it isn’t likely she’d take the first station.
It’s likely she’d take the second or third.
And it’s not likely she’d take the road;
she’d stick to the cliffs and the mountains.”

“Even at that,” said I, “she’d have to
pass Bailin Wigniss.”’

Bailin Wigniss is a passage through the
purple northern hills from Donegal and
Destiny Bay to the lowlands of Derry. The
Gap of Loneliness is the English transla-
tion of the Erse name. Here the last Irish
wolf bitch and her litter were killed in the
time of the first George and here stood a
gibbet in the troubles. An eerie place, Bailin
Wigniss, all heather and blue slate crags,
and a turbulent muddy stream tearing

October 17,1925

down from the summit of Slieveroe, the
Red Mountain.

“Well, she won’t starve,” said I; ‘‘there’s
apples and nuts, and there’s moss to sleep
on; and she has matches, I’m sure; and you
can always catch a trout with your hands in
one of the little pools. She'll be all right.
But if she gets to Derry, we’re done for.”

“Sure she has no money,” said my Uncle
Valentine.

“She’s got rings, sir, and old brooches.
She can sell those.”

“I’m afraid she’s lost, our wee Ann-
Dolly,”.said my Uncle Valentine. And
there was a little catch in his voice that
made me sorry.

‘Not at all, sir,” I told him. “I’m going
down to the post office to telegraph the
police in Derry, Larne, Belfast and Dublin
to arrest her when she turns up.”

“But sure they can’t arrest her!”’ said
my Uncle Valentine.

“They can,” said I, “for stealing the
family spoons.”

Jenico was fuming in the stable yard,
standing beside his black pacer.

“‘Let’s go!” And he was for getting into
the cart.

‘When I’ve had a few slices of cold beef
and pickles, a pint of beer and a cup of tea.”’

“Damn it, Kerry, you're not thinking of
eating!”

“T hunt no woman,” I said, “on an
empty belly.”

“But she may be gone for good! We may
never catch her!”

“On the other hand,” I told him, “she
may be in some ditch dying with a charge
of your buckshot in her ribs.”

“Oh, my God!” Jenico began running
around in circles. “Oh, my God! Oh, my
God!”

“If you don’t stop keening like the Shan
Van Vocht,”’ I said, “‘ you can stay at home.”

We got under way at last, Jenico and I
on the front seat, Carabine behind. I shook
the reins gently, and the black pacer moved
as a boat moves under a keen pressing
wind. There was something thunderous
and free about him. I could see his beauti-
fully held head and imagine the throwing
of his forefeet. Fine action in a harness
horse is one of the most moving things in
the world. I can understand the contempt
of the men who race trotters for the bang-
tails, as they call the flat racers and chasers.
Jenico’s American pacer was the best horse
I have ever sat behind. There came into
my head the text: “‘He smelleth the battle
afar off, the thunder of the captains, and
the shouting.’’ He was that sort of horse,
if you know what I mean.

“Man, Jenico,” I said, “but you’re the
lucky fellow.”

But Jenico only groaned.

I pulled up at the Mountainy House, the
pub that is a quarter mile from Bailin
Wigniss. Carabine unhitched the pacer
and I went into the bar.

** Man of the house,” I asked, “have you
laid eyes this day on a red-headed young
fellow has the air of a girl?”

“Your Honor,”’ he answered, “there
hasn’t been a Christian here or hereabouts
this day. There has only been two police-
men.”

“I’m leaving a horse in your stalls,” I
said, and walked out. Jenico came with
me. Carabine followed us from the yard.

“I don’t know, Kerry,”’ said Jenico, “if
you'll think me foolish, but there has come
a funny idea into my head. Was there ever
an Ann-Dolly at all? Or is this a dream we
are all in the middle of? It’s a queer coun-
try here we dwell in, and you as well as
myself know the stories there are of women
who have come out of the sea and married
men and gone back to the sea, leaving
them silent and desolate. I don’t know if
you ever noticed it,”’ said Jenico, “but I’ve
never seen beauty the like of hers. Such
warm beauty, Kerry—beauty from within.
There were shades of her hair that were
like new heather, and there was no warm
whiteness like the whiteness of her skin.”

We were at the bridge of Bailin Wigniss.
I turned to James Carabine.

(Continued on Page !69)

©

‘

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

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October 17,1925

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

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(Continued from Page 166)

“Either she has passed this way,” I de-
cided, ‘‘ or she hasn’t.”

“True for Your Honor,” said James
Carabine.

There was a tall ash tree with a long jut-
ting branch over the road, a sad and eerie
tree.

All was eerie and cold—the tumbling
river, the shadowy mountain, the sad tree.

“You know, Kerry,” said Jenico, “it
seems immensely strange to me that the old
Spanish duke should come from Spain to
be buried in Spanish Men’s Rest. I don’t
think he ever came from Spain at all,”
said Jenico.

“Where do you think he came from?”
I asked.

“From Spanish Men’s Rest,”’ answered
Jenico.

T must say a little shiver came into my
bones, as though I were stripped on a
mountainside, and a gray February wind
were blowing about me as about a stripped
tree.

“But how about the girl?

“There may have been a girl on the gal-
leon,” said Jenico. ‘‘Kerry, do you re-
member Black Trewethy of Ardona—the
one that had the Lone Woman’s Grave in
his garden? A woman with black hair and
glowing eyes knocked at the great door one
night and Black Trewethy answered it.
She said she was going to Enniskillen and
had lost her way, and Black Trewethy said
he’d put her right. Both his butler and
manservant saw her. But once Black
Trewethy passed out into the night he was
seen no more of.”

“‘And when ten years later,” Carabine
said, “the Lone Woman’s Grave was
opened, there were two skeletons, and one
of them had the great frame of Black
Trewethy.”

“Kerry,” said Jenico, “do you remember
where I loosed the charge of buckshot?
She was going home.”

“Be damned to the pair of you, and your
winter nights’ stories!’’ I laughed, but I
wasn’t very easy myself.

A little cart had come up to the bridge,
drawn by that very small brown donkey
we of Ireland call the Jerusalem ass. The
cart was driven by a small rat-faced man
in a suit of reach-me-downs and a gray cap.
There was a pile of merchandise, covered
with a tarpaulin, on the cart, and back of
that the framework of a Punch and Judy
show.

The man was of a type that is the pest
of our northern country, bringing in cheap
tea which is traded for valuable Carrick-
macross lace, tenpence worth of tea for
two guineas’ worth of lace; cheap jewelry
for fine Donegal tweed. They even take the
children’s coppers with their punchinello
booths.

“Did you see anything of a lad on the
road,” I asked, “‘with red hair, and a bit
girlish in his walk and ways?”

“T did not,” he said, and thumped the
donkey.

“You've damned little manners,”’ said I.

“And less time,’’ he answered. “Hip,
Jack!”

We are a courteous people in Destiny
Bay. We have not the abrupt ways of
cities. We resent offhandedness. We re-
sent it all the more when it is from aroam-
ing peddler to the younger of Destiny
Bay. . . . Carabine caught the donkey’s
rein.

“Come down out of that,” I said, for
something had caught my eye.

“‘T’ll have the law on you,” he said, but
he came down.

“I don’t know where you come from,
my cheating fellow,” I told him. “But now
you’re in the Black Heart of the Black
North. The law here is laid down by my
Uncle Valentine and by myself. Did you
ever hear tell,” I asked him, “of Quiet
Kerry Mac?”

I think he must have heard a story or
two, for he turned white.

“Now tell me,” I went on. ‘“ You’ve seen
nothing of the lad I mentioned?”

“No, sir,” he said.

He was wearing no collar or tie, but a red
handkerchief tied around his throat coster-
wise, or in what we call the Killevy knot,
with the ends flaring. I put out my left
hand and caught him by it, giving it enough

twist to make his eyes bulge. I opened his |

coat with the right hand and pulled out of
his vest pockets a heavy watch and chain
with a bunch of seals.
“Then where did you get this watch and
chain?” For I knew it to be the old duke’s,
“’Twas left me by my grandfather.”
“And this ring?” I twisted his hand
around and the emerald inside glinted

dully. “Your grandfather left you this

too?”

“He did.”

Though he was white, he didn’t falter. |

It’s extraordinary how people will stand up
against odds for property.

“That’s enough,” said I. “Jenico, look
in the cart for a couple of pieces of rope, or
anything that will pinion his arms and tie
his ankles.” And we had him trussed in a
minute. “Carabine, back the cart under
the bough and let down the tailboard.”

I rummaged in his cart until I found a
good length of rope. I worked a nice run-
ning loop on one end and slung it over the
projecting branch of the ash tree. I belayed
the loose end with a stout clove hitch.

“Now sling him up on the tailboard of
his cart,”’ I told Jenico.

“Damn it, Kerry,” Jenico shouted,
“you're going too far!”

“In the absence of your uncle, Sir Valen-
tine,’”’ I said, “I’m head of this family. If
you don’t like the way I do things, get out.”

“All right,” said Jenico, and he lifted
the man standing.

“Do you, Carabine,” I directed, “give
the neddy a whack on the rump when I tell
you.” I dropped the noose over the ped-
dler’s neck. “’T'was the mercy of God,” I
said, “that there was a tree here.”

“Are you for hanging me?”’ said the
chapman.

“Just that.”

“You'll hang, yourselves, for it.”

“Not at all, my dear man,”’ I told him,
“not at all. For when I’ve drawn your
neck into the shape of a corkscrew, I'll cut
the pinions from your arms and the spancel

from your feet, and it’ll be the bonniest |

suicide seen in the country for years. You'll
be a ne plus ultra to coming generations.”’

The man’s face was yellow beneath a
mask of sweat.

“TI met the lad you spoke of,” he qua-
vered.

“Sure that’s no news to me.”

“IT met him three miles down the road,
and he was for Derry across the moun-
tains.”

“And you cut his throat, I suppose, and
took the watch and ring from him.”

“I did not”—he could hardly speak—
“but gave him fifty shillings for them, and
him near dead with hunger.”

“Then why,” I asked, “did you lie to
me?”

“Sure I was afraid he'd stolen them, and
when you asked after him I thought you’d
take them from me and I’d lose both them
and my fifty shillings.”

“You'll lose your fifty shillings anyway.
Here, let him down,”’ I told Jenico. “ Now
away west wi’ you!”

I went over and sat on the bridge while
Jenico and Carabine helped him onto his
cart, for he could hardly stand. I saw Jen-
ico get the ring, but I saw him, too, hand
over fifty shillings. There is a strain of
weakness in Jenico.

We weren’t much farther advanced than |

before, for the mountain trail to Derry is a

vague wide trail, and it is scattered with |
mountain viliages all deserted, where the

famine of '48 killed off the people, and
cleared the survivors to America. Sheep
land most of it; houses with the thatch
fallen in; blind windows, all the pathos
and dejection of a deserted house. At night
in the mountains there is a vast loneliness.
Ourselves, the country people, are not at
home in the mountains by night. There
was nothing I knew to harm Ann-Dolly
there; but the sense of being alone on the

THE SATURDAY

EVENING POST 169

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170

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

Irish mountains with nothing about one
but space—there is something in it too big
| for the human spirit.

“Hadn't we better be getting on?” said
Jenico.

I looked at him for a minute and turned
to Carabine.

“Go down to the Mountainy House and

harness up and drive to the Ferret Mc-
Clure’s. Tell him I want Hackler’s Joy and
Sweet Marie, and bring them back with
you. I'll walk on down the road to The
Orange Sash. You'll find me there. And as
for you,” I told Jenico, “go back with
Carabine to the Mountainy House and
borrow a bicycle. Go back to Destiny, and
ask Aunt Jenepher for one of Ann-Dolly’s
shifts.”

“T’ll be damned if I will,” said Jenico.

“Och, do as you’re told, Mr. Jenico,”
said Carabine wearily.

“Would a handkerchief do, Kerry?”
Jenico asked.

“T said ‘shift.’”’ And I moved off down
the road.

At the Orange Sash there was a great
welcome for me. There were Johnnie Mc-
Gloomire and his wife Cassie, and Johnnie’s
old grandfather—one of the last thousand
survivors of the noble six hundred of the
Light Brigade. He was supposed to be one
hundred eight years old, but Johnnie had
added a few years for the good of the house.

“And what brings you our way, Mr.
Kerry?”

“T’'m hunting a young fellow that’s run
away on us,” I said; “‘a red-headed fellow
has the great look of the girl about him.”

“Sowl!” said Johnnie. “But that one
was in here two hours gone! He was dead
with tiredness and the feet nearly cut off.
Talked with a touch of foreign accent and
drank sarsapariila.”’

“That’s him,” said I.

“Well,” said Johnnie, “he bought a loaf
of bread and a tin of sardines and was off
over the mountains. You'll have a queer
job finding him.”

“T'll find him,” said I.

I sat in the bar, eating the meal Johnnie
and wife got for me, waiting for Carabine
and Jenico, and thinking to myself how
everything you do in life comes to profit
sooner or later. God knows how many
years before it was that I brought heme
from Belfast a big book called the Memoirs
of Casanova, translated from the Italian.
A rare scoundrel this fellow was, cheating
at cards and fooling women; in effect, a
true foreigner. My Uncle Valentine picked
it up from the table where I laid it.

“Did you read this?” he asked.

“T did.”

“And did you like it?”

“T did.”

“It’s rare reading for a lad of fifteen,”
said my Uncle Valentine. And he thought
for a while. “There’s a book I'd like you to
read."’ And he went out and brought a copy
from the gun room; “‘and it’s a grand book

October 17,1925

entirely.” He gave me a book called Uncle
Tom’s Cabin. ‘Now read that,” he said.
“And so’s it’ll stick in your mind, you'll
copy it in fair script from the title to the
last word.” I looked up at him aghast.
“Or there'll be no racing this summer.”

I must say it struck me as an overrated
book. There were some weird birds in it,
an awful bounder called Simon Legree, and
a most pious old colored man called Uncle
Tom. But what struck me particularly
was hunting the negro blighters with blood-
hounds. Of course, they couldn’t have been
real bloodhounds; probably boar hounds or
great Danes, for the bloodhound is the
most affectionate of all dogs, and the gen-
tlest. . Still, if it hadn’t been for my
memories of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, we'd not
have found Ann-Dolly that night. She °
might have died in the mountains of starva-
tion and exposure. It only shows that
things which appear foolish at the time are
profitable in the latter end.

xvit

HE mountains were imperial and stark.

They were purple and aloof. In the
twilight, they threw shadows that could
not be seen but felt, triangular shades, like
Magis’ caps, and most long. The sickle of
the new moon rested on the summit of
Slieveroe like some strange symbol, and
one felt that when one attained the sum-
mit one would have achieved a pilgrimage
of some mystic kind as in medieval legend,
and the sea we would sense from the moun-
tain top would not be Mother Atlantic, but
some vague sea of futurity, of infinity.

The hounds were solemn and most nice.
Their huge wrinkled faces, their slow cer-
tain movements gave the eerie sense of
superhuman sagacity, the sagacity of ants,
the sagacity of birds. Beside me Jenico
stood, his face so white as to be luminous
nearly, and James Carabine was gaunt and
huge in the dusk. He had, with his kindly
foresight, picked up a mountain pony and
saddled it for Ann-Dolly. He stood there
with the reins in his hands.

“Pick it up, boy. Pick it up, sweetheart,”
I called to the hounds. “ Quickly, darlings,
quickly.”” Hackler’s Joy stood still a mo-
ment, sniffing the air, and then suddenly
he gave the bloodhound’s deep bell-like
note. The bitch looked up a-quiver, and
then joined him.

“We're off!” I said.

The lights of the pub in the distance
began to recede, as the lights of a port re-
cede from the taffrail of a ship. We went
over the soft half grass, half heather of the
mountainside. The pony’s hoofs gave muf-
fled thumps, like the thumps of a muffled
drum.

“We're all right if we don’t cross a sheep
track,” I thought.

As we went on, the moon dropped into
the sea, and there was nothing but star-
light, cold, unearthly. The mountains were

(Continued on Page 173)

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

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October 17,1928

(Continued from Page 170)

no longer purple, but steel blue. The grass
was crisp beneath our feet, for a frost was
coming, and in the morning the bog holes
would have their skin of ice on them that
would not melt until the sun was high.
Now and again something rustled, a hare
or a badger, and my heart stopped lest the
hounds should lose scent; but they got
together, whining gently in communion,
and were off. The sharp distant barking of
the shepherds’ collies answered their bell-
ing tongues.

“There are bad shepherds in the moun-
tains, and bad dogs, Mr. Kerry,” whis-
pered James Carabine to me, though why
he should whisper I don’t know..

“TI know that,” said I; “that’s why I’m
hurrying.”

““What’s that?” asked Jenico.

“Oh, nothing at all, Mr. Jenico,” an-
swered James Carabine.

We struck through an abandoned village,
where from the bare walls of the cottages
our footfalls and the pony’s trot struck an
echo that reéchoed in my heart. Under the
starlight it seemed abandoned even by
ghosts, which is the most dreadful aban-
donment of all.

The hounds swung sharply to the left as
if they were going straight for the moun-
tain top instead of skirting the shoulder.
Already the pace and climb were beginning
to tell on me.

“God,” I thought, “what a lion heart
she has!” And then it occurred to me:
“She will never get over this. If we don’t
find her soon she will be dead. After this
walk she will have lain down to die. In the
weariness that’s on her and the black frost
that’s in it, she will this night die.”

We had come up to a part of the moun-
tain where a small lake is. It may be an
ancient bog hole. It may be an extinct
crater. Who knows? All I know is that it is
black and deep. And there the hounds
checked.

“Oh, Jesu!” said Jenico.

A small stream runs down the side of the
mountain from Lochbeg, the little lake, and
2 hundred yards off are the ruins of one of
Shane O’Neill’s towers. I tried cast after
cast with the hounds, but they came back
to the lake’s brink.

“I don’t suppose for a minute,” I said,
and I looked at Carabine and Carabine
looked at me, “‘but I may as well make
sure.” And I threw off my coat and began
to loosen my shoes.

But the bitch had waded through the
stream, and she gave tongue on the other
side. I may say I was dizzy with relief.
Now I knew what had happened. She had
stopped there to bathe her feet.

In Shane’s Castle we found her, standing
flat against the wall, terrified before the
deep baying of the dogs. Her feet were bare
and she was standing in a clump of nettles,
so unconscious was she of everything but
the presence of the hounds.

“It’s only us, Ann-Dolly!" I called.
“Here, Carabine, show a light.” And I
changed the hounds’ baying to shrill yelps
with a couple of ungrateful kicks. Carabine
tied a piece of oiled flax tow to a stick and
lit it.

“Ah, sure, my poor girl!” I said when I
saw her.

“Ah, Miss Ann-Dolly, but you’ve wan-
dered far,”’ said Carabine.

But Jenico said nothing.

She gave me a tortured little smile, with
a twitch at the corner of her mouth, as if
she were about to burst out crying, and
she gave Carabine another. But at Jenico
she stared whitely, and Jenico stared
whitely at her, and neither said a word.

“Come out of them nettles, Ann-Dolly,”
I told her; ‘‘come out of them nettles and
explain te me why you ran away from your
comfortable home.”

Carabine was pulling me by the sleeve.

“Mr. Kerry,” he said, ‘come on. The
Ferret McClure will be wanting his hounds
back.”

“To hell,” said I, “with the Ferret Mc-
Clure! He'll get his hounds back when it
suits me and not before.”

THE SATURDAY

“Come on now, Mr. Kerry. God knows
what they’ll be feeding the pacer down at
the Orange Sash,”

“To hell,” said I, “with the pacer! They
ean feed him boiled beef and cabbage for
all I care, It’s not my horse. It’s Jenico’s.”’

“Come outside, Mr. Kerry, till I tell
you something.”

“Will you let me alone, Carabine?” I
said. “Sure you can tell me nothing I don’t
know. What are you two gawking at each
other for?” I asked Jenico and Ann-Dolly.

James Carabine stuck his torch in the
ground, and lifting my twelve stone in his
hands as easily as though I were a child,
he carried me out.

“Mr. Kerry, Your Honor,” he grewled,
“will you for God’s sake come on to hell
out o’ this and leave your Cousin Jenico
and Miss Ann-Dolly by their lee lone?”

xviit

NE of the poets—Shakspere or Thomas
Moore, I don’t know or care which—
speaks of a sea change. And a sea change,
the turn from the gray dullness of the sea
to its jeweled fresh beauty, is the only word
to use for the metamorphosis of that house
and townland. Sheena Spanya, it had been
called of old, before my grandfather in his
admiration for what he termed the King’s

“Blasted English had it changed in the

county survey to Spanish Men's Rest.

There had hung over it an invisible veil
of tragedy. Something lay between that
sweet house and the sun. And no birds
were there, nor bees. The fruit trees were
not barren but ungenerous, and the flowers
seemed always to say, ‘‘ What are we doing
in this lonely unmusical place?’’ And when
the trees rustled, it was not crisply, making
a gay small music, but heavily, as though
they were weary, weary. And that field
where the Spanish men lay—you sat on the
dike of it, and there was no sweet peace
there such as smiles in our Church of Saint
Columba’s-in-Paganry, such as makes you
feel that beyond the bronze doors of death
aresunshine and singing and old friendships
taken up again. There was no peace there,
but a dreariness, a dreariness as of gray
rain and blackish yew trees. The field was
a surly desolation.

But since Ann-Dolly wext there to live
in and be mistress of my Cousin Jenico’s |
house, the veil has lifted. It seems as if the |

Spanish men had ceased warring against
the estate beneath the grass. Now that
their sister and their duchess reigns there,
and after her will reign the little children
of her body, it would appear as if a pact

had been arranged between the restless |

men and the enchained land. For now the
land is free. Where once the sunshine was
heavy as a fog, it now is gay like a child’s
song. Even the rain is gentle. In the woods
about, the bluebells toss their heads like
pert young women. The primrose smiles
gentiy from the banks, and everywhere are
birds—fat blackbird and trilling thrush,
small linnet, robin red breast and the bishop
wren. As you pass through the garden,
where soon small children will be, the apple
and pear trees seem to stop you, so vital
they are, saying, “See, all spring and sum-
mer we have labored to produce the golden
and russet fruit. Surely you will not pass
us by!” And everywhere is the serious
bee, and that rejoices one, such a token of
good will to a house the golden bees are.
But of all miracles, the greatest is the
Spanish Field. It, which was so desolate,
where the grass was gray, which was dumb
of birds, is now gay and smiling, is bathed
in sunshine, and at the sleepers’ heads the
Atlantic is repentant and sings a soft low
lullaby, and above them the skylark flings
out his brave joyous song. Their coverlet
is blue in spring, and in summer is gay with
daisies and buttercups. They slumber well

now, and we do not grudge their sleep or |

bed to them. Our hearts are the soil of the
realm they rose in arms against. But they
were greatly valorous, and it is so long ago.
So God rest you, valiant gentlemen! Give
you good night!

(THE END)

EVENING POST

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

THE OLD FIGHTER’S CHILDREN

Their talk ran at length toan end. Out-
side of knavery, Wong was no fool. To

| himself, he grudged and growled at the rate
| of insurance, but knew, if he did not envy, a

capable honest man when he saw one. His

| language, his demeanor, could not have

been more winning.

* Agreed, then.”

Autumn sky, a fortnight later, spread

over mountain rim and peak its yearning
| blue without a cloud. Up the hottest of the
| passes bumped a two-wheeled cart drawn

by a little shaggy white horse that panted,
while his driver, climbing before, kicked
stones away to rattle down a ravine. With
feet on the nigh shaft, back set against the
round-topped hood, a passenger kept him-
self more or less upright and read a book.
Feeble, shortsighted, bent with age, the
passenger seemed,

His book was that flower of genius, pearl
of romance and history, the San Kuo. It
is hard to believe that a reader could keep
his eyes, not on the enchanted page, but
eraftily over the top of the volume, watch-
ing, watching, as a hawk watches a land-
scape for any bird.

“One old gaby who reads or nods to
sleep, One driver. Nobody else. Come on,
kill and take.”

So, high behind a crag, voices muttered.
Then down over rock, brown earth and
gravel poured like trapdoor spiders from
their holes a mob of sunburnt wild men,
half gray rags, half naked muscle. Armed
with heavy tridents, yelling in glee, they
surrounded horse and cart. The driver flew
down to join the stones he had been kick-
ing. His passenger did not even close the
book, but lowered it, and smiled.

“Aha!”

The chief robber, poising in both hands
his trident, lunged, Straight for that old
gentleman’s midriff darted the steel razor
prongs. But that old gentleman lifted one
finger in a curious motion and parried. The
trident glanced up over the cart hood. It
fell clanging in the road behind.

“Silly fellow!”

Overturned by his own force, the spear-

| man groveled under the cart, then dragged

himself out and rose, but only to his knees.
“Pardon, oh, excellent aged greatness!”
he implored, with voice and look of terror.
“TI did not know! The sun dazzled my
mudlike eyes!"
Our bookworm traveler drew from his

| cart a small flag, which he unfurled and

stepped in the whip socket of bambeo—a

| yellow flag, inscribed with black:

CHIN FONG ESCORTS.

At sight of it,
howled.
“Pardon, reverence, pardon! Spare, and

the kneeling marauder

| forgive!”

Smiling, Chin Fong leaned toward him
over the shaft of the cart.

“Your life I spare. But for correction of
error, here is a lesson ——-"

Where the knife came from, nobody saw;
perhaps from heaven, from the air through
which its blade suddenly flashed. What
had been the tip of the robber’s left ear
became a spout of blood.

*-. to remember.”

That was all. The road lay clear; the
white pony tossed his head, free; uphill ran

| the earthborn rubbish helter-skelter for

their holes again. A little yellow-and-black

| flag triumphed in the hot breeze, domi-
| nated mountains and beckoned the driver
| to fear nothing, but return.

Thus Wong Tai Kwong’s remittance of

| silver went northward, his bales of furs

came down intact and paid for, He gave
the old champion a jovial welcome, ex-
pressing great delight.

“Your art, sir,” he went on, “is the most
practical of them all. Nothing short of a
wonder. If I had your skill now, I might
guard my own goods.” While they sat at
supper, he fell to thinking. “Could you
teach a man of my age?”

(Continued from Page 21)

“In gaining width and wisdom,” replied
Chin Fong, ‘your body may have learned
to dispense with certain flexibilities of
youth, trivial in themselves, no doubt. You
are strong and agile, however, and quick-
witted. Yes; on the whole, yes. In two or
three years 2 grown man might acquire the
rudiments.”

Wong caught at the chance.

“Then stay with me. Let us try,” he
begged. ‘‘ Consider this house as your own
and me as your pupil.”

Not one lesson would Chin Fong have
given for all the man’s wealth, had he
suspected what other people knew. He
took time, of course, to inquire. On the
surface everything favored his cordial host.
The farmer’s widow being dead, none of her
neighbors whom Fong met cared to circulate
rash truth. He therefore lived at the mer-
chant’s and trained him. All went happily.

“You are an immortal teacher,” ex-
claimed Wong. “‘ You have let my strength
loose from bondage. My heart sings.”

“A gift of Nature, when restored,” said
the veteran, “is doubled. You are a very
apt learner.”

They were walking, after cudgel play, in
the garden. Deep greenery of old trees with
fruit among foliage; toy hills and temples
of intricate gray stonework knee high; moss;
flowers; a pool—half light, half darkness;
where water lilies dreamed — began to fade in
that evening hour when gardens breathe full
sweetness. Fong wondered a little that his
rich man should rather go along booming of
health, extolling effort, than be still and
enjoy that rarity, peace. They turned a
corner where willow branches hung down.
The old fighter woke from his musing.

“What is that?” he whispered. “How
lovely!”

By twilight, near the willow, danced a
spirit of evening. No, it was human. A
young girl in apricot color swayed and
spun, flinging overhead two swords that re-
volved as dizzily but as true as wheels, then
catching them each by its hilt. The grace
and accuracy, rhythm and joy of move-
ment, were supernatural.

“That?” Mr. Wong laughed.
only my daughter.”

His voice ruined the charm, for the gar-
den sprite threw down her blades, quiver-
ing deep into earth, and ran like a rabbit.

““Come back here, child.”

Under the willow her apricot silk dodged
into view again, She returned slowly, with
gradual obedience.

“My daughter. Fifteen years old, but a
tomboy. I am a widower. Come, come
here, Butterfly Glory, and speak to my
friend, my great master cf art.’’

The girl bowed. A delicate red tinge
underlay the gold of her cheeks.

“You play,” said Fong, “prettily.”

This child, he thought, had eyes darker
and deeper than the element of truth.
Strangely, they were not her father’s. They
met something, he never knew what, in the
eyes of a childless man hardened by long
practice.

“Thank you’’—she touched him on the
sleeve—‘‘dear old gentleman.”

He did not wish to be a fool, so turning,
bent and examined her playthings, which
were real swords, a double-edged pair ex-
tremely sharp.

“Who gave you them?” he scolded.
“Your hands are too flowerlike to be
gashed by ugly tools.”

Again the child bowed.

“The luck of the ignorant, sir, has kept
each grubby paw entire.”

Fong clasped his elbows before him, to
remain for a long time still and admire her.

“ But do you like it? Do you like playing
with swords?”

“T love it! I play every day, every night.
Will you teach me how, truly?”

He smiled and looked toward her father.

“It would be a joy,” said he, “could I in-
struct her for nothing in spare moments, for
an old man’s whim.”

“That is

October 17,1925

The merchant, fanning his breast, waved
all trifles into air.

“If you like, of course. A tomboy. Run
along, Butterfly Glory.”

He fanned her away. She plucked up the
blades and danced off, whirling them under
the garden twilight.

So began with Chin Fong, late in life and
against all habit, a new felicity. He taught
the girl’s father for pay, earned it, found
him an exacting if not a trying pupil who
grasped every dollar’s worth of the art that
a middle-aged man could get by quickness,
cunning and bull strength. The girl he
taught for pastime, then for love. It
amazed him. Never had he thought of
wasting lessons on a girl; yet here was one
gifted by nature, born to the mystery, who
promised perfection. She moved light as a
leaf, as a blossom on a wind-blown stalk,
but with swift power underlying that grace.
Not a hint could he give by word, iook,
dodge or turn of weapon but she caught
and improved it.

In three years, when he had no more to
give, the child was become a young woman
and the light of his eyes.

“To go from her is painful,’’ mused the
old fighter one morning at daybreak. “But
it is wrong to live on here and take wages
if you have ended your work.”

He rose, packed his clothing in a wicker
basket, his knives and swords and spears
in a long coffer of black pigskin with a ring-
ing lock, then called a manservant and in-
quired for the master of the house.

Wong Tai Kwong, said the man, had
already gone out, an affair of trade sum-
moning him.

“But the young lady is in the garden.”

Mist hung there, drifting from bough to
bough; sunrise drew it overhead into smoky
peachblow colors; nothing else moved; the
water lilies were not yet open, and all the
garden remained so quiet that Chin Fong
thought himself alone till under the droop-
ing tresses of the willow he discovered her.
A small bundle in pink-silk trousers and
blue sleeveless jacket, she lay curled on the
ground with her head against a china drum
stool.

“Risen too early. I will not wake her.”

That famous painting, the Lady Fallen
Asleep at Embroidery, was never half so
beautiful. He turned with reluctance to
move away, when he saw that a gold orna-
ment in her hair trembled and that she was
crying.

“What is wrong, my child?”

She looked up at him quickly, her face
pale and woebegone, her eyes brilliant with
tears.

“Everything.” He sat on the ground be-
side her and waited. “Everything but
you.”

The reply so moved him that he spoke
from the bottom of his heart.

“Let me help then; for you, my dear-
you always I have loved as a-daughter.”

“Oh, why was I not?” Butterfly Glory
covered her face and wept again. “‘Why
was I not yours? It may be wicked to say,
wicked even to think, but it is true. And
you cannot help me. This thing goes far
down beyond help.”

She crooked one arm over the china
stool, raised her head, and with a passion-
ate effort to be calm, sat erect.

“Infamy. Grant me your pardon.”
What she brushed away was not her
tears but the cause of them, unbearable
knowledge. ‘‘Can you grant it now, while I
commit the sin? My father is—is no more;
a devi! borrowed his body and dwells in-
side. No, no, wait, a lie! My father, he
himself, my father alive is that which may
not be told—false, cruel, bloody. Oh, for-
give, master, of your loving kindness for-
give my truth which those who hearken
from the cther world never will. I dis-
grace my father to you. He has wronged
widow and orphan, has hired murder, is not
to trust. A few hours ago I learned all this.

(Continued on Page 177)

—
4

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Fob ‘

ee ————

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

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176 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST October 17,1925

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“3

(Continued from Page 174)
How can I sleep any more? What shall I
do? Run from him?”

Her teacher’s look was grave, keen, but
steadying.

“ Are you sure

“Too sure.” The girl combed apart the
willow screen behind them, glanced through,
searching the garden, and lowered her
voice. “In a box hidden away he keeps
medicine of death, a subtle poison. Last
night I caught him vial in hand, preparing
drink—for you! Can you believe? At first
my own eyes could not; then I snatched
and threw it on the floor. Oh, shame of our
house! He learned all from you; and now
in his greed would have all for himself, de-
stroy you, and be without a rival!”

Chin Fong accepted her news like one
who had known it for an age.

“*My daughter,” said he, ‘‘ here has come
a great sorrow, yours and mine. The world
is crowded with sorrow, nor can we do any-
thing but go to meet it, sharpen the cour-
age and fight it out. Is he unkind to you?
No, not yet; I supposed not. Careless only,
and hard. To leave him, to run from him—
how can I advise you? In my village and
my bouse you would be welcome, safe, at
peace. If I say come now, I do wrong. He’s
your father, he gave you life. You may
turn his heart from »

“That,” said Butterfly Glory—‘“‘that is
hopeless. He would laugh, joke and tell me
to go play. But no; I will stay in the fight,
dear master.”

Sunshine, climbing garden wall and trees,
poured in upon them before they rose from
talk.

“You have comforted me. Again, even
in this! You are holy and wise.”

“I’m an ignorant, battered old fool.”
Fong smiled at her. “‘ Well, if worse comes
remember my village and house.”

Though he could smile then, he could
not as they said good-by; nor when, having
hired bearers to call for his basket and chest
of arms, he started off homeward, afoot
and alone. Beyond the last field, he chose
for short cut over the hills a rough narrow
path, a hidden track known to him and to
salt smugglers, up which he went hurrying
as if to outclimb his thoughts. They were
bad company, burdensome. He had not
told them all to that poor child below.

“She bears enough already. But what
of me? Blind worm, tortoise egg, moth
brain, you have squandered our art on a
man without character! You have bar-
gained our dread skill away to a wretch who
will eat the people, devour them by your
aid quicker than ever. It is time you went
home, folded your silly hands, died!”

In this and like reproach, Fong clam-
bered up the narrow way. It became
steeper, wilder, burrowing among thin
bushes in a ravine, zigzagging on sharp
ledges and mounting the dry bed of a water-
course or a cleft like a ruined chimney. He
met no one, saw no moving thing. The
forenoon grew hot. On a high place above
a glen he paused for breath and, looking
down, saw valley and plain checkered with
the misty green of crops, the brindle yellow
of barren earth, all aquiver beneath haze.
Roundabout, up here where stillness
burned, a mournful desolation hemmed him
in; ridges and bowlders and jumbled rock
everywhere as unwholesome a gray-brown
as the color of rats. A shrub or two by the
handful here and there withered in a crev-
ice. Not so much as an ant crawling or a fly
humming disturbed the hills with life.

Suddenly, near by, metal clinked on
stone. The old man turned, gave ear and
watched. Again came the clink as of a
trowel or a hammer.

“No one,” he thought, “can be working
here.”

The sound rose from below. A few paces
down the glen there shot into sight, as
though disgorged by the rocks, a human
figure that, sailing through air, landed up-
right on a flat stone. It had the likeness of
man or boy. Naked but for a blue rag
round his loins, and for enormously awk-
ward shoes, he bounded away downhill,
poising, leaping, poising, leaping, each time

on

with that hammer blow of metal. Then he
turned, gathered himself and came dog-
gedly jumping up again from bowlder: to
bowlder. °

This might be a mad savage or a fox.
Having an open mind always ready to
leara, Mr. Chin did not care which,

“A good jumper; extraordinarily good.”
And as the creature drew near, he hailed it.
“Boy, what are you doing?”

Loud and abrupt, his challenge might
have daunted anyone. The hermit-acrobat
gave a start, indeed, but rather of vexation
than of alarm, and continuing to approach,
bowed.

“Venerable sir, if you must know, I prac-
tice jumping.”

A slender young man, admirably knit,
with muscle playing free beneath a skin as
brown and smooth as copper, he looked
Fong straight in the face and appeared not

‘only to judge but to like whatever he saw

there. Bending, he unlatched and took off
his shoes, a queer dark pair larger than
gourds. They were of iron, their soles worn
silver-bright.

“So I observed, with great content,”
quoth Fong. “Why do you jump in iron
clogs?”’

The boy gave a smile of embarrassment,
apology.

“To learn to fight, sir. They’re the best
I could do. As a means toward that end.
Cousin Lai the blacksmith made them.”

“Fight?” The veteran pricked up his
ears. ‘‘You unfold matter of peculiar in-
terest tome. Pray go on. Why learn fight-
ing?”’

Every way this brown youth pleased
him; in manner, in body, and yet more in
countenance, where native ease and mild-
ness of humor were tempered like steel by
a clear, direct, unquenchable spirit glanc-
ing from the eyes.

“That, sir, I cannot tell you.”

“What? You do not know your own
motive?”

“Oh, yes,” replied the jumper. His
tawny face grew stern. “I know.” He
gave Chin Fong a piercing look, and sud-
denly with the back of one fist wiped his
forehead. ‘“‘Why not? You seem a kind old
gentleman, different from those mockers.
Do you care to hear?”’

Fong nodded.

“Sit down, boy. If your heart is heavy
this morning, so’s mine. Talk. Out withit.”

They squatted on rock together.

“T’m a clown, sir, a joke, whose name
happens to be Siu Leong Yook, but whom
the village calls Tin Hoof, Iron Heel, and
grins at. A man coveted a wine jar, so he
killed my father and my mother. I prom-
ised her, because our neighborhood dared
not help by law, that when strong enough
I would slay their murderer in open fight.
Well, that’s all. A promise. Climb up here
and jump, go home and be laughed at. No
progress, nothing done. You were so good
as not to laugh.”

True, Chin Fong gave no sign of merri-
ment, but lifted an iron brogue, weighed it
on his palm and considered the wearer.

“You speak bitterly.”

“The thing, sir, is bitter.”

“Need you cover yourself with blame?”
said Fong. “ Your quarrel is fair.”

His companion sat like a statue of bronze
in a denim-blue loin rag and frowned.

“Quarrel? What said the Ancient Wise
Man East of the Mountain? ‘With him
who murdered your parent you may not
breathe one air, nor sleep under one sky but
on your knife blade for pillow.’ I tell you,
sir, these hands of mine do nothing. Both
parents eaten by a fat devil, and I have be-
come a byword, lying to my mother!”

Fong put the shoe down and meditated.

“Can we be certain,” he propounded,
“that the Wise Man was right? I’m not.
But then, you see, I fear I know more of
knife blades than of ancient wisdom or
conduct. We brethren of the Heung Ma are
no philosophers.”

With a cry, the statue beside him came to
life, sprang up, held both arms rigidly to-
ward heaven, then dropped on its knees,
imploring.

THE SATURDAY

EVENING POST

“Oh, venerable one! Of the brother-
hood! I have dreamed this our meeting
often. Help me! Take and teach! In re-
turn I can give you nothing, my bare body
and soul!”

For the second time that day our friend
saw tears running down a young face. He
never knew just why they conquered him
now.

“Come, it’s too hot here,” he replied.
“Walk home with me and we'll think it
over.”

The naked suppliant would have spoken,
but could not.

He rose, leaped awey down the gorge,
vanished behind a bowlder, and came
lightly up again with a scant pile of cloth-
ing in a farmer’s hat, as on a tray.

“Ready, master.”

Joy transfigured him. Fong, remember-
ing a golden age when he, too, envied an
apprentice, chuckled.

“A fox of the hill you are, boy, to be-

witch lone travelers. On then! We shall
see,”’
They climbed as for a bet. Neither spoke
again. After a blazing day, they came by
starlight to a village high on a crest, where
a hundred shadows of men murmuring the
name of Chin Fong crowded about and foi-
lowed them respectfully to his door. The
house they entered was dark and smelled of
herbs.

“Your cot,” said the old man gruffly, “is
any corner of the back room, Iron Heel.”

His habit at home was to wake before
the second cockcrow. He followed it next
morning, opened his eyes to the familiar
bare chamber in the dusk, but saw a new
and wonderful arrangement there. On the
floor near his bed lay a wooden platter with
tea, millet and dumplings, over which a bent
figure waited as in dream or prayer.

““What’s all that?”

“Your breakfast. Your disciple.”

Fong lay back and tried not to laugh.

“Good breeding,” he growled. “‘Good
breeding. Put your food away, though, for
in my house we begin work empty.”

To work they went in a barnlike out-
house, where the mournful daybreak
showed nothing but a tall table, a chair,
hardwood staves in a corner, and a hedge-
row stand of arms gleaming along one wall.

“Now jump,” ordered the old man.
“From here, jump on that table, Tin Hoof,
and as far off again.”

It looked an impossible distance and
height. The boy gathered himself, sprang,
touched the table in passing, and landed as
neatly as a cat halfway down the length of
chunam floor.

“Heavy,” scolded the professional.
“Bad. Weight and noise. I heard your
feet. All wrong, for you knotted your body

beforehand like a coolie with cramps, It |-

must go without warning. Your prepara-
tion shouted to the world, ‘What ho! Look
out! Here I start!’ A fatal error. Now
gently does it.”

At ease while talking, Fong suddenly
went high in air. He flew like a bubble car-
ried on a gale.

With no sound but the whisk of his black
garments, he skimmed the table top and
stood across the room.

“We therefore,” he continued as though
nothing had happened, ‘‘ must begin at the
very bottom. Don’t gape, stand erect! Put
your feet together. Watch, hearken, be
prompt!”

For an hour the farmer’s son repeated
movements at command, childish move-

. ments, that left him aching worse than if

he had hoed many a mou of dry clay. The
old man, who did them all six or eight
times to his once, grew fresher, more lively,
loose-darting, eel-jointed, but as a critic
more and more glum.

“Enough, O bones of lead! You can-
not! Go eat, stuff, stupefy, imbody and
imbrute. Then return here, wipe the grease
off those arms’’—Fong pointed to the
bristling hedge of lances, glaives, hal-
berds—‘‘and burnish them. Porters are
bringing home another chestful, my travel-
ing kit. Clean everything in that, likewise.
One flake of rust, one scratch on the metal,

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DOUBLE LIFE

Hammers Ratchets

Files Sledges Axes

EVENING POST

one cut in your ten thumbs, and out you
go. Look to it, cub!”

Harsh orders, poor fare, scorn, silence,
tyranny, ground the youngster from morn-
ing till night. They were alone in the
house. He kept it, ran the errands, cooked,
waited at mealtime, brewed herbs for medi-
cine, tried out oil for liniment, crawled to
bed in the dark, rose in the dark to brush,
button and make worn cloth appear neat
for a day ionger. Three months went by.

“Stop!”

When he had jumbled another lesson be-
yond hope, he raised his head to see the
tyrant grinning.

“Stop, my boy!” Mr. Chin Fong threw
down a spear and beckoned. “‘Come, rest
you. Sit. I’ve treated you like a dog, you
know, cuffing you about with my tongue,
calling you Iron Heel, and so on. That’s

over, done with. Gold fears no fire. Of all
| my pupils, you are the first who ever
| jumped on that table—a trick table made
to upset—-without upsetting it. For praise
Ihave given curses. You take them, neither
sulk nor wince, but drudge ahead, tending

| me better than a true son. Outdoors, my
| cousins and neighbors like you, for a

strange reason— because, they tell me, be-
cause you're always playing jokes on them!
What kind of joke, boy, wins your victim
into friendship? Eh?”

The drudge gave him a timid smile.

“Old pranks that father taught me, sir.
Maybe one or two of my own.”

Fong laughed heartily.

“I thought so,” he replied. ‘‘ Well, after
this, don’t smuggle all your fun outdoors.

Keep a remainder in our house. You are

| accepted, my apprentice. And with heav-

en’s aid, a new star is going to shine. Its
name will be a rude mockery polished into
honor—the name of Iron Heel.”

From that day their house abounded in

| fun. Their work, an endless exacting drive,

became play. A year sped thus.

“Lie down,” came the order one morn-
ing. “Flat, and view the rafters while we
hold a test.”

Iron Heel stretched out, naked, to bal-
ance on his abdomen a cool, smooth, brook-
rounded stone larger than a man’s head.
Fong, heaving a sledge-hammer in air,
dealt one blow that cracked the stone into
flinders. Iron Heel jumped up laughing.

“You pass. A good anvil,’’ His master
sighed with relief. “I was anxious; but
you are hardened.”

Many a long walk they took in sunshine,
rain or wind on lonely hillsides, gathering
herbs from which Fong taught. his novice
to compound their hidden medicine, lubri-
cants, makers of bone and muscle, the
Heung Ma balm for cudgel! bruises and the
salve to heal sword cuts in a week. One
hill, however, they climbed not often, and
only to retire above earshot. Men called it
the Ripe Gourd, for its dome was bald and
yellow. A cricket could not hide there.

At the end of the second twelvemonth,
Chin Fong said, ‘“‘ Now, the last time, we go
up on our Gourd.”

Another ceremony withdrawn from the
world, a final secret where no one might
overhear, the young man expected; but
when they had gained the high ledge, warm
in clear sunset, the old man tucked his
knees under him and grew still, remote.
The land beneath, shining like a yellow sea
with fantastic reefs and islands of black,
wavered far off toward a mountain range
no denser but a little darker than the sky.

“Nothing is left me to teach,” began
. Fong quietly. ‘The jug is poured out. You

‘| are my best, or my best but one. Today

crowns all. You enter the brotherhood.”

In their bouts of fighting, their talk,
their pastime, they had lately become as
boys together; the disciple had forgotten
to stand in awe; but now a sudden rever-
ence and humility frightened him. Without
answering, he bowed his head.

“You did not speak again of your quar-
rel. That, I hope, is put away. Revenge
only claws open the itching wound.”

Iron Heel studied the yellow earth in

pain.
“ Father ! ”

October 17,1925

“Son? It is a good hour when you call
meso. What, my son?”’

The boy groaned.

“For you—if you think right—I will
break my word, my promise to her.”

They regarded each other silently, with
emotion.

“ Right or wrong,’’ said the master, “no.
I can’t accept your gift. A broken word—
no, no. We’re not subtle men, we two, but
plain. And I thought”’—he exulted, calling
the sun-bright air to witness—‘‘a moment
ago I wondered how I could be prouder of
you!”

Their hill cast a lengthening shadow, the
countryside beneath faded from orange to
brown.

“You may have observed,”” Fong went
on, “‘that I never asked the name of your
enemy.”

“A rich and evil oppressor, his name is

- Wong Tai Kwong.”

“Ah!” The veteran shivered and folded
his hands. ‘‘ That then was our destiny, her
house and garden? We feel the power
brooding over mortals, knowing how we
shall move and act. Say no more, bow to
its will.”

Sunset failed, earth became a dark cloud
under the stars, night breeze passing the
hilltop died away, and eastward, in time, a
sallow radiance crept aloft before moon-
rise. The two men saw each other as vague
hints of bodily form.

“Tf it must be,”’ one murmured, “then
let it be soon.”

“Tomorrow.”

“You will not catch him readily; for by
day Wong Tai Kwong surrounds himself
with creatures, by night locks up his house
like a prison. He never would hear an hon-
est challenge to come forward.”

“We shall meet.”

“No doubt,”” The shadow that was Fong
reared its head. “Part of your fortune I
can tell, Him, the liar and murderer, you
will overcome. But he has a daughter
there sound

“A girl? Who fights with giris?”’

“Scorn is no weapon,” rejoined the old
man very sadly. ‘‘When I called you my
best but one, she was the one, or may be.
Ch, sorrow! There lies the danger, and we
are blind. Whatever else, avoid her! The
soul is rent apart between you. Up, my
poor son, let us go home. This moon, I
dare say, has often shone on a tired, con-
fused old noddy.”

Before it shone again, through dark of
the next evening, Iron Heel came to his
enemy’s house. Bareheaded, barefoot, he
wore black clothes with a girdle in which,
right and left, a pair of knives hung ready.
High above him loomed the garden wall.
He sprang, touched the coping and whirled
over like a wreath of smoke. Boughs thick-
ened the gloom, honeysuckle drenched it
with sweetness, a star lay in a pool and
trembled. He went moving through en-
chantment with a cold, unearthly dread not
of any person or thing alive, but of his
errand.

‘My mother.” He drew the girdle tight,
worked each knife up and down the scab-
bard. “It is hard to think. Now, when
wanted, I cannot see her within.”

A sound perturbed the garden. “Tsic-
tsic,”’ it went, irregular, like bubbles break-
ing or the slow falling of water drop by
drop. He waited, stock-still, and gradually
remembered it—the sound of goldfish that
rise to prick the surface at night.

Leaving this behind, he entered a maze
of walls, pillars, balustrades, juts and cor-
ners. The great house was not one buiid-
ing, but many in a grove, all obscure and
dumb. He found the largest of them, crept
along its front and saw a thread or upright
line gleaming, a chink between shutters on
a window. His eye, held there, could per-
ceive no more than depth in a room, lamp-
light, and the shadow of a man’s head
thrown back, drinking; but the panel on
which the shadow flickered was view
enough.

“Sandalwood. The sandalwood room
that mother talked of. She traced a plan

(Continued on Page 180)

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

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THE SATURDAY

(Continued from Page 178)
on her bedquilt. Now you know your
way.”

Retreating by a stride or two, Iron Heel
ran, flew from ground to eaves, and was on
the roof, tiptoe, soft as the descent of an
owl. Then came noise; for suddenly tear-
ing the tiles off, he made a breach and
dropped through.

Wong Tai Kwong, the comfortable
drinker, spilled a cup of wine as he bounced
from his chair.

“Robbers! Who are you?”

Shot down from heaven, there waited a
young man in black, with hands behind
him.

“Who are you?”

“The son of Siu Ching. Your hired hands
killed him for you in this room. I bid you
to a fair fight. Shall we go outdoors to-
gether? it will be clear, for a moon is
rising.”

The young bronze face appeared so calm
that Mr. Wong summoned his wit, his
courage, even a contortion for a smile.

“Why, why, very fair!”" Gorgeous in
silk, he preened a.broad bosom. ‘‘ Let us go
out, if you like. But-—-but we misunder-
stand. I can’t fancy what is wrong. Do you
know, you resemble your father?”’

While parleying, he tried it—the leger-
demain of the knife born in air to sting
home quicker than its flash.

“No. Father was untaught.”

The knife flew to meet a shield born also
in air—a broken tile, on which it clinked
harmless, and which for one instant Iron
Heel remained holding up like a tablet of
doom.

“His son learned the mystery.”

A lightning swoop caught the knife on
the floor and returned it. Wong Tai Kwong
dug both hands into silk, backed over his
chair, flung round an arm, failed to en-
counter support or anything but a dark
wine jar that went down with him and
rolled, spilling, from his embrace.

“Dead. It may be the same jar.”

Thought, feeling, wonder, there was no
time for. Men ran in, servants who crowded
| the room yelling and spearing at him.
| Enough blood!”

He swept their points away as a runner
| goes through tall grass. They had left a
door open. He raced under the black
branches, vaulted the garden wall and
dropped into a dream of citron-colored

| moonrise pouring level across the earth.
“Enough of blood. Avoid your cousins,

| Carry none home.”

Not fear but instinct warned him thus to

| keep from the village, hurry by an oppo-

site path and make for the hills.

“Back to your master.”

The path, nibbled away by the hoes and
trodden smooth by the feet of hungry gen-
erations, ran cranking zigzag, a moonshine
thread continually broken where crops
grew higher to confuse the labyrinth in
He heard a rustling sound that
seemed to follow him.

“What? Never!” He laughed. “Never
a man of them can hold this pace.”

He quickened it, however, sped clear of

| the fields, beyond the outlying hummocks

where tombs clus-
tered, up a hillside

EVENING POST

dodging, retreating, straining all he knew
of defense, Iron Heel managed one after
the other to whip his own knives into
play. .

“Be off! I have no reason to kill you!”

Without a word, his enemy feinted and
struck nearer than before.

“If you will take it!” he shouted.
“There!”

The blow he delivered, subtle and swift,
was an end-all. Even his master called it
so—when rightly dealt, the Old Inevitable.
It failed. A new parry that wriggled into a
counterstroke sliced his jacket down from
collar to waist. Me gave ground; then
while they danced apart and clashed to-
gether, saw, with a start which nearly be-
came his undoing, that the adversary who
fought him was a girl. In this mortal com-
bat her face, lighted now and then as by
the flicker of their blades, appeared calm,
pale, unearthly. She wore gray silk that
shone like frost.

“Win or lose, you’re beaten.”” Humili-
ated, confused, he went on struggling by
rote, awkward as a beginner. “How can
you strike anything so lovely? And if you
would, you could not, for we are equal.
You can’t even run. She is too quick.”

Up and down the slope they raged,
bounding, panting, interlocked, thrown
asunder, till the moon rode high and white.
He saw the girl clearly; and as with des-
peration he played for time to wear her
out, marveled because time grew an age in
which he had known the toss of her head,
the long oval eyes, the childlike grace and
liberty even of her most furious attack.
She had now driven him to a flat space
of barren ground, where for the moment
they circled each other, bending low and
watching.

“Stop!” roared a voice. “Hold off!”

Between them, with a high fantastic
leap, darted a black goblin. He carried a
sword, and made it whistle in a ring of
moonlight steel.

“Hold off!”

They knew him for their old master.

“Children! Children!” He let the sword
go spinning far above the rocks and lowered
his arm. “‘No more!”

Discipline, habit, and something yet
more inwardly awakening, held them to
stillness.

“Put up your knives, Butterfly Glory.
And you, my son, yours.”

“No!” cried the girl. “He has killed my
father.”

“What then?” replied Chin Fong sadly.
“Your father killed his, and by grief his
mother too. Come, sorrow not for ourselves,
but for all. Children, be quiet, be gentle,
be generous, look into a poor patched-up
soul you are tearing. I have lived rough
years, fought for this and that, wasted
much, gained little, yet as a fool continue
hoping to gain—what? Your love in my
old age. Come, give me that prize tonight,
for the good of all. Self, self; when our
worid is bursting with it like an idiot’s
bubble under the moon, will you two swell
its vanity? Son, your hand. You two are
even. Kill, and the score begins fresh, an-
other dead body to her account, another oa

”

October 17,1928

his, one more, one again, and so to the ruin
of house, neighborhood, country. My
daughter, put up your playthings. Quick,
your hand!”

They obeyed. Leaning on him, Butter-
fly Glory wept.

“You are even,” said Fong. “By nature
both are true. My bones feel a current of
kindness flow among us. Daughter and
son, let me make you happy forever. Par-
don all things, join and live.”

The moon made a threefold shadow of
them, dumpy and grotesque.

“Never!” Butterfly Glory snatched her
hand free. ‘‘Never—unless he beat me!
Tonight he could not.”

Hanging his head, the farmer’s son drew
away. He saw only barren dust, gilded,
colored like ripe grain.

“Then I go about the world,” said
he. “You two are all I care for. Walk
safely.”

He climbed westward, on the hilltop
raised an arm and sank.

A year later fable drifted back. From the
country where all earth is emperor’s yellow,
from the land of Ginger Stones where men
dwell underground, from the Western De-
files, from Fu Hi’s birthplace and Kansuh
and regions unknown, travelers meeting
like ants passed home the touch of a name.
Rumor spread it into magnificence, If we
never know truth while men say one thing
or another, what remains fairly certain is
that he who did slay the Loathsome Beast
in the Stinking Pond was a wanderer called
Iron Heel; and that looking up from his job
he saw a grandfather with white mustache
and white hair, who smiled at him and
beckoned, All these were happenings far
away, if ever.

One day Chin Fong the champion rested
under a willow in a garden where he was
welcome, and argued the fable. Afternoon
loitered here, drowsy and bright. Near
by, on a china drum, his favorite Butter-
fly Glory sat and stitched, embroidering a
panel.

“Tt may be the same man,” he sighed.
“It may not.”

A servant fretted them by announcing a
caller, who gave no name.

“Who would speak to Mr. Chin Fong,
on a professional matter.”’

“Professional? My affairs, in your gar-
den?” said Fong. “Is it allowed?”

“Send him here,” ordered the young
mistress, “if he be respectable.”

Her servant grinned like one who knows
more than he utters.

“This being cannot judge, Tai-tai. You
may.”

Down the path walked a ragged young
man dark cs Luzon tobacco, who gave them
greeting.

“T come to fight,” said he, “for a wife.
Iron Heel by name, I have studied under
the Ancient of the Western Heaven. Who
says me no?”

Chin Fong sprang up and bowed in a
transport of submission.

“What, him, the head? Not I then, my
son, You are my living master.”

“And you, madam?”

The girl peeped over her embroidery
frame, said noth-
ing, but ducked

tawny in the full :
moon.

“But there is!
How now? A devil
abroad?”

The rustle of
garments, a light
patter of feet, drew
close behind. He

upon him, pounced
like a young tiger,
and left a scratch
of its claw. Next
moment he was
fighting for life,
barehanded

a pair of knives.
At great peril,

The Great Sand Dunes Near San Isabei National Forest, Colorado

behind it with a
smile.

Wind swayed
the willow tails.
They hid an old
fighter who ran
off toward the
house.

“Clean!’”’ He
paused in a room
of sandalwood and
made obeisance,
alone. ‘‘ Wiped!
Years are very
strong, stronger
than art, than the
Heung Ma. Whoof!
Yes, well. To the
aged and beaten, a
cup of hot tea is
refreshing.”

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

{——>
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182 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

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said. I examined a twisted rod at the front
end of the roadster and found we could
proceed.

“John would make a dependable hus-
band,” Roberta said again. . . . “What
a terrible driver you are!”

“T can do better than this. You always
make me nervous when you're near me.”

“TI shall not be near you long,” she ob-
served.

I drove the rest of the way skillfully and
thought of several good things to say, but
decided not to say any of them, At the
clubhouse she left me immediately and
hunted up the prodigy from Santa Bar-
bara; and I sat alone, having a glass of iced
tea and enjoying the beautiful view from
the veranda. Presently I observed Lloyd
Tripp maxing his way toward my solitude,
threading through the tables and nodding
to this one and that one.

Hello,” he said, glaring down at me, as
though uncertain whether to stop or to
continue threading,

“Hello,” I answered, trying to think of
something to say to him. ‘How is your
golf game?”

“All right,” he said. ‘You wouldn’t

know, anyhow, if I told you. I feel let
down today. D’ye mind if I sit down and
have a beaker of coffee?”’

“Pull up a chair,” I encouraged him,
determined to be polite. “Have you seen
anything of Roberta Symonds? She’s out
there shooting somebody eighteen holes.”

“T have not seen her,’’ Lloyd answered,
the genuine bitterness of his mood reflected
in his tone,

He ordered coffee, and when it came he
drank it mournfully. It is surprising how
mournfully a person can drink coffee when
he feels let down.

“Seen John?’’ he asked.

“John who?”

“John Stevenson of course. If she’s out
there playing golf, you can wager old John
is not far away: .He certainly makes me
weary.”

“T thought you and John were like this,”
I ventured, holding up two fingers.

“I don’t like him and I don’t care for his
company. His conversation bores me and
he doesn’t know when he isn’t wanted.
Besides that, he’s an obstinate idiot. That’s
why I’m going to play him these eighteen
holes.”

“What eighteen holes?”

“To see does he go to London or do I go
to Japan. Matter of fact, John should have
gone over to England years and years ago.
He hasn’t done a lick of work since he left
college, and if I were his father I'd disci-
pline him.”

This sounded like a priceless gem, com-
ing from Lloyd.

He paused and sadly surveyed the land-
scape, which was beautiful and green, with
rugged hills climbing into the blue dome of
heaven and wandering brooks whispering
in the undergrowth, The trees were in their
new spring dress and the turf was like vel-
vet, but it was all wasted upon the melan-
choly fellow.

“Tf I can beat him,” he continued, “I'll
probably marry Roberta. But while he
fools about I haven’t a chance. He seems
to have a hypnotic effect upon that beauti-
ful girl; and that’s not saying I think she
would marry him, because if Roberta has
any one outstanding quality, it’s her com-
mon sense. At that, he may beat me, be-
cause he has at least twenty yards more on
his drive, the big brute.”

“You mean you're going to play him to
see which one of you marries Roberta?
‘sounds cold-blooded to me.”

“It isn’t at all. If he defeats me I shall
go to Japan. They’ve wanted me to go
anyhow.”

“* He might not beat you,”’ I said thought-
fully, “if you could get him to give you a
one-hole handicap.”

“One hole isn’t much—not with his drive

against me.”

THE SATURDAY

WOOF-WOOF!

(Continued from Page 27)

“Tt might be much if you said to him
pleasantly, ‘John, you give me a one-hole
handicap, and I'll take it anywhere and any
way I wish,”

“Continue,” said Lloyd.
joker?”

“Simply that if John hasn’t heard of this
one, which is one of the oldest in the annals
of golf, you may put it over. He may give
you the hole, and if he does, you take one-
eighteenth of it on each green.”

Lloyd dropped his cigarette into his
coffee cup, as they do in the movies, arose
and laid a hand upon my shoulder.

*“*Leander,”’ he said, “‘we have never had
much in common, but you're a brick.
You’re a genuine brick. I haven’t appre-
ciated you. I always had a notion that you
didn’t like me.”

“Nothing of the kind,” I said warmly.
“I like you as well as I like John or any of
these golfing people.”

I waved my hand at the animated scene
about us. Dozens of ladies were lunching,
some in little groups by themselves and
others with their menfolk. Golfers were
clanking about, dragging bags or swinging
putters, and the air was filled with the
merry banter that has helped to make the
game the distinctive thing it is in American
life. Many of the ladies were clad in men's
garments, and if there is one eye-compelling
spectacle in the world, it is a moderately
obese golfing lady, with piano legs and cor-
responding framework, clad in the golfing
costume of her lord and master. That there
is nothing in the Constitution about it is
due simply to the fact that there was no
golf when the clauses were put in.

Again Lloyd informed me that I was a
brick. He shook hands with me heartily
and hoped I would come around oftener.

“Of course,’”’ he reflected, “‘it all depends
upon whether John has heard about taking
one-eighteenth.”’

“He hasn’t,”’ I assured him. “It’s merely
an old golf story. May the best man win,
And by the way, when does this fatal
match take place?”’

“Any time he wishes to play,” said
Lloyd. “I’m going out now and see how
Roberta’s doing.”

He departed briskly, with a merry word
to this and that one as he passed

“What's the

I had the fortuitous pleasure of taking
lunch with Roberta before the week was
out, and she was more dazzling than I had
yet seen her. It was a pink sweater this
time.

I*had been éarting some pictures for her
during the morning and she asked if it
would be asking too much to trundle her
over to Fenwold, where she wished to prac-
tice a new method of digging out of bunk-
ers. We had the usual sandwiches and tea
and we talked.

“Funny about John and Lloyd, isn’t it?”’
I asked mildly.

“‘What’s funny about them?” she de-
manded.

I think Roberta is now twenty-four—it
might be twenty-three—and she has a way
of making her mouth into a complete circle
and blowing a sentence at a person.

“Playing eighteen holes to see which one
marries you,” I said a trifle sadly.

“Oh, that,” she laughed. “They don’t
mean any harm by that. You have it all
wrong, Leander.”

“Havel? Are you going to stand by and
be played for like a silver mug or a brass-
bound golf bag?”

“They’re not playing for me. It's to see
which one shall take a voyage this summer.
It’s Friday.”

“What is?”’

“The match, You're coming to watch it,
aren’t you?”

“I have my Booke Shoppe in town,” I
said with dignity. “I work for a living and
I am not in sympathy with idlers, so I eer-
tainly shall not waste an afternoon watch-
ing a foolish golf game.”

EVENING POST

“I’m we along with them,” she said.
“They play beautifully at times.”

“T wouldn't think of it,” I said.

At one o'clock Friday afternoon I drove
up in front of Roberta's stone house, and
for once she was ready. In ten minutes we
were at Fenwold, and John Stevenson met
us at the clubhouse and permitted us to
look at him. He was clad in tan knickers,
with black-and-white hose, and to me he
seemed unusually gorgeous until I saw
Lloyd, who came in a moment later. Lloyd
was in green, with red-and-black stockings.
Roberta wore pink, with a dash of old rose,
and the three of them, standing before the
huge fireplace, lightened up the entire
room. I wore my usual three-piece suit,
this year’s model, with differential oil on
the right shoulder.

There began immediately the usual f
ing and fiddling that always seem to take
place before even the most ordinary golf
contest can get under way. I inferred that
Roberta's presence might perturb either or
both combatants; but there was not the
slightest evidence of it, and the discussion
was general,

“As you know, Roberta,” John said,
while we strolled leisurely toward Number
One Tee, “ Lloyd is a shiftless duffer, who
has so far wasted his young life, ignored the
advice of his friends and is a recognized
drag upon the progress of the human race.”’

“The same as you,” said Lloyd.

“And we play these eighteen holes so
that Lloyd may go to work. I shall defeat
him today for his own good, that he may
become a useful citizen.”

“If he beats me I go to Japan,"’ Lloyd
interrupted. “If I beat him he goes into
the elevator business in London, England.
We have agreed to this and there is no
step-out.”

“You can be the umpire,” John said, and
Roberta accepted the post with a light nod.

“What about Leander?” she asked,

“Oh, is he coming?’’ both said together.

Roberta replied that certainly I was com-

ing, having come thus far; and what kind
of club would it be to send a visitor home
just as an important match was to be
played?

“He can be assistant umpire,”’ John an-
“He can watch Lloyd when I'm |

nounced,
on the other side of the course.”

We solemnly approached Tee Number
One, the four of us, Roberta leading the

way and Lloyd holding her arm and talking

earnestly,
As yet there had been nothing said con-

cerning the terms of the contest, and the |

debate began.

“Inasmuch,” said John, “as you are a
slightly better player than I am, with a surer
midiron, it will be only fair if you grant me
a handicap,”

“You're mistaken,” replied Lloyd. “If
there is any handicap I get it. Everyone
in this club knows you are one of the long-
est drivers.”

“Nonsense!” said John. “You merely
regard me as an easy mark. I prefer a real
contest and so I must have a handicap.”

They squabbled for several moments and
eventually came to the point.

“You'll give me two woofs, that’s what
you’ll give me,” John said firmly, keeping
his serious air and looking toward me.

“Two what?” Lloyd inquired, his sur-
prise manifest,

It was his inner conviction that he was
at least half a dozen strokes stronger than
John any time he happened to be strictly
on his game. John, of course, thought the
same of his own skill.

“Woofs,” John repeated. Roberta

looked from one to the other in polite in-
quiry. “Two of them,” John said, “and |
I can take them when and where I please.”
He then went into details, explaining |
carefully just what a woof was and how it |
was to be used. ee
“How jolly,” said Roberta. |
(Continued on Page 185) |

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(Continued from Page 183)

“You yell at me, eh?” Lloyd remarked,
thinking it over.

“Whenever I so desire, as long as I do
not exceed two yells.”

Lloyd reflected, waggled his driver in
thought, glanced meaningly my way and
smiled.

“Tell you what I'll do,” he said. “I
never heard of woofing a man before, but I
am a true sportsman and have no desire to
take advantage. I will give you your two
woofs, providing you give me one hole.”

“One hole!’’ John exclaimed. ‘Why
should I give you one hole?’”’

“Because you're a better golfer than I
am, for one reason, and I assume you wish
this to be a fair trial. For another, when
you asked me to give you two woofs, I im-
mediately gave them to you.”

John smiled over at Roberta, much as a
doting young groom beams upon his bride.

“If you put it that way,” he said, “I
suppose I shall have to give you the hole.”

“And,” continued Lloyd, ‘as one hole
is a very slight handicap, compared with
two woofs, I am permitted to take the hole
when I want it and any way I want it.”

“‘ Agreed,” John said innocently.

“‘And now that you're ready to start,”
said Roberta, who was becoming impa-
tient, “‘let’s start.”

“Immediately,”’ said John, and they
girded their loins and prepared to bang the
ball a mighty distance.

They tossed a coin for the honor and
Lloyd called heads, which was absolutely
correct. He constructed a neat mound of
sand and delicately balanced the ball upon
its very apex, braced himself for a solid wal-
lop, looked behind him at John and waved
his club head gently over the shining pellet.

John strolled quietly and unobtrusively
to a position immediately back of Lloyd’s
left shoulder blade where Lloyd could see
him out of the corner of his eye, and as the
club head climbed rhythmically up the
back swing and paused for perfect descent,
John sucked in an even gallon of pure West-
chester ozone and let it out again in the
form of an ear-shattering yawp.

“Woof!” said John, and a two-hundred-
pound banker from Park Avenue missed
his putt on Seventeen Green, two furlongs
away, and cursed the entire Stevenson
family.

All over the Fenwold golf course gentle-
men and their caddies paused in surprise
and asked one another if this was a golf
course or a public barroom. Mr. Lloyd
Tripp’s club head faltered in midair and his
body jerked spasmodically. He caught the
ball with the toe of the club, and instead of
rising in a straight line down the fairway, it
swirled swiftly off at right angles, hopped a
tee box, spattered against a wire screen,
galloped across the practice putting green
and wound up under an automobile in the
parking ground.

Lloyd smiled in a sickly way, took an-
other ball from his bag and placed it before
him.

“*That’s one woof,” John remarked ami-
ably. “You now understand what a woof
will do to a man’s game.”

The woof giver looked at his antagonist
uneasily and tried to decide whether the
second one would come immediately. John
smiled inscrutably. A moment later Lloyd
hit a straight shot down the fairway and
the match was on.

I strolled along with the contestants,
chatting with Roberta and reflecting that it
didn’t matter, after all, which one of these
golfing idiots won the match, or whether
one of them went abroad. Roberta seemed
intensely interested in the shots and said
“Well played” at intervals; but I was un-
able to decide which man she favored. I
felt for a while it was Lloyd, but she smiled
so pleasantly at John and said “ Nice shot,
John” that I presently switched.

As for myself, I found myself thinking
how much nicer a world it would have been
if the parents of these golfers had never
met. John won the first hole with a four.
Lloyd needed a six, so he remained silent
about his fractional stroke.

THE SATURDAY

On the second tee John drove a mighty
belt down the greensward and gazed com-
placently toward the lady prize. She
clapped her hands lightly, indicating ap-
proval. Lloyd approached the tee and be-
gan fussing over the ball, and we saw that
he was preparing to withstand the shock of
a second woof.

John anchored himself again behind his
enemy, maintaining perfect silence; and
Lloyd, after a questioning look, swung en-
ergetically. It was a miserable hit. The
club head bit into the turf before it struck
the ball and the result was a half top that
spun over the grass and died immediately.

“Terrible!” said Lloyd, looking worried.

“Yes,” said John. “I think you looked
up on that one. Always a good rule to keep
the old bean down, eye on the ball, and if
you find it impossible, grow a long set of
whiskers and stand on them.”

John was quite jolly.

“You feel pretty flip, don’t you?”’ Lloyd
asked. “‘ Well, you won’t presently.”

The contestants required fives on Hole
Number Two. Roberta and I stood at the
far edge of the green and watched them
putt out.

“TI win the hole,”
cheerily.

“Oh, no,” said John. “We took fives.”

“You took a five, but I took four and
seventeen-eighteenths.”

“Uhg?” said John inquiringly. “I don’t
understand.”

“T will explain. You gave me one hole.
I choose to take one-eighteenth here and
now. Caveat emptor and requiescal in pace.”

The stratagem dawned upon John.

“You're joking.”

“Am I? Play on, MacDuff, and see. I’m
sending you to London to sell elevators,
m’ lad, under the name of lifts, and don’t
you forget it.”

“This is unfair advantage, bordering
upon cheating,” John stormed. “I never
agreed ——”’

“ Ask the witnesses,”’ said Lloyd. ‘ Did
he or did he not?”

We both nodded.

“Yes, John,” said Roberta, “you did
agree to let him have one hole, to take
when and as he wished. It does seem a
trifle harsh.”

Mr. Stevenson threw his putter savagely
at his caddie, who caught it on the first
bound.

“Perfectly silly,” he announced. “A
mere trick, and worthy of you.”

He looked at Lloyd and Lloyd looked
at me.

“Do you play on,” Lloyd inquired po-
litely, ‘“‘or do you forfeit the match here
and now?”

“T play!" John roared. “Hand me that
driver.”

The game continued, and I must admit
it was scarcely more than an open-air brawl,
with the two players disliking each other
more and more at each green. The way
John and Lloyd swore at each other was
terrifying and novel, although they swore
in hushed tones and when certain Reberta
was out of earshot. Had it been otherwise,
I would have said something to them.

It remained a close contest, with Lloyd
worrying Over the unspoken woof; and at
the tenth tee I signified my intention of re-
turning to the clubhouse for a cup of tea
and a comfortable chair. Selling books un-
fits a person for arduous foot exercise, and I
have had chiiblains since I was eleven years
old.

“No,” said Roberta firmly, ‘you stay
with me and we will see this golf match to
the finish.”

“T can’t understand you,”’ I said crossly.
“Instead of enjoying this thing, you should
be indignant. Imagine two hulking men
playing a senseless game for a girl’s hand.
It’s immodest.”

“T think it’s interesting,” she answered,
“and they happen to be playing excellent
golf. I know now, from watching Lloyd,
exactly what is wrong with my spoon
shots.”

“‘ And I know what is the matter with my
feet,” I said. “I’m going in.”

Lloyd announced

EVENING POST

“No,” she said again; and I remained,
tagging along, not enjoying myself in the
slightest and listening to the bitter re-
marks that came on each succeeding green.

There was a brief moment during the
afternoon when I actually regretted my
own sedentary mode of life and my physical
inadequacies, along with the slight propor-
tions bequeathed me by Nature. For a
moment or two I craved to be a large and
powerful man with biceps here and there
and a convex torso. I yearned to be like
the two who were now locked in this death
struggle, able to play golf myself—profes-
sione! golf—golf of such unquestioned ex-
cellence that Roberta Symonds would be
forced to admit I was somebody.

I believe that at this time she worshiped
devoutly a man in England named Mitchell
whom she had never seen, but who, so it
was stated in the public prints, could drive
a golf ball three hundred and fifty yards.
I pictured to myself the joy of being a
Mitchell. Then sanity returned as abruptly
as it had fled and I tried to escape to the
clubhouse, where there are chairs.

“If you think it amuses me to watch a
couple of men decide which shall marry
you,” I ventured, “you are mistaken.”

“Your necktie is coming off,”’ she said,
adjusting it. ‘Come along and watch them
play the water hole. I will bet you one dol-
lar that neither lands upon the green.”

The infuriated contest dingdonged on
and on, with the Shylock Lloyd demanding
his one-eighteenth on each green and Ro-
berta at hand to see that he got it. Mean-
while the advantage given him by that
handicap was more or less dissolved by
John’s threatening manner and his remain-
ing woof.

Each time Lloyd approached his ball and
made ready to hit, be it drive from the tee,
brassy, iron shot or putt, John spoke softly:

“Remember, Lloyd, I still have one more
woof coming to me.”

Gradually this continued threat of out-
burst began to annoy Lloyd and undermine
his morale. His nervous system commenced
to show signs of incipient collywobbles, and
as his irritability grew his skill departed.
He hesitated where a strong man would
have displayed decision.

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He shivered ex- |

pectantly over his drives, waiting for John |
to shout at him. He bent nervously over |

his putts, his fingers gingerly clasping the

club and his ears wide open for the impend- |
ing yowl. Gradually the strain wore him

down as the game moved onward, and he

played like a bedridden inmate of an old |

ladies’ home. Only his monstrous handicap
kept the match square, and they finished
the eighteen holes exactly even.

Contestants and spectators assembled at
the rim of the eighteenth green, which John
had won with a five against a six for Lloyd
Tripp.

“T assume,” John said, “that we shall
have to go on into extra holes. There will
be, from here on, no handicap.”

“Suits me,” Lloyd agreed coldly.

They prepared to play a fresh hole.

“I don’t see why it is necessary,” Ro-
berta commented, speaking in her cheerful
manner. “You have had an interesting
afternoon and a close match. Why not let
it go at that and be friends? You have
both played splendidly and I have enjoyed
seeing you. So has Leander, Haven't you,
Leander?”

I said, after a moment’s thought, that I
had enjoyed the struggle to the utmost.

“But,” I added, “I wouldn't care to fol-
low it any further.”

“We've got to settle this thing,”” Lloyd
grumbled. “It’s just where it was when we
began.”

“T don’t think it will be necessary to
play further,”” Roberta said. “It’s getting
dark anyhow. Neither of you actually
longs to take an ocean voyage.”

voice.

“Then,” Roberta said briskly, “leave it
this way. Both stay here in Westchester
and let the old trip go.”” They stared at her
in questioning astonishment. ‘And,”’ she

concluded calmly, “I shall marry Leander.” |

“Certainly not,” they said in a single

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EIGHTS

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

I had just started toward the clubhouse,
| intending to get the green roadster, and I
| was not more than twenty paces away, or
possibly twenty-five. Dusk was beginning
to blot out the world. A careless workman,
probably a former caddie, had left a lawn
roller made of iron and concrete directly
between me and the clubhouse, and what
with overhearing Roberta speak and trying
to turn my head quickly, I naturally fell
over the roller. The turf was soft and I
grunted slightly, picked myself up and con-
tinued toward the sheds where they store
the automobiles. There I paused, one foot
resting upon the running board.

“Either I heard wrong,” I reflected, “‘ or
she was joking.”

I entered and drove back rapidly to
where the trio stood. They were talking in-
timately in subdued tones—that is, Ro-
berta was talking, and the low music of her
voice floated over the gentle undulations of
the eighteenth green. John Stevenson was
swishing away at the grass with his putter
and Lloyd was rolling a golf ball in the
palm of his right hand and examining the
experiment with intense interest. Roberta
laughed as I rattled up.

She said good night to the gladiators and
trotted over toward my car; and in order
to avoid embarrassing anyone, including
myself, I left the engine roaring so that no
other sound could be heard; and I may say
that I have an engine with undoubted
faults, but inability to roar is certainly not
one of them.

Roberta stepped in and I turned without
a word, or even a bow, and drove rapidly
off the Fenwold property, heading for Ro-
berta’s home.

“*T suppose you wish to be taken home,”
I said, after going a mile.

“Of course. Where else on earth would
I be going at this hour?”

“Well,” I said feebly, “you might want
to go somewhere else. People have often
been known to want to go somewhere else.”

You see, I was fluttering a bit, and not
certain of anything, and no doubt it showed.
Roberta looked at me strangely and I con-
tinued driving steadily for at least two
miles.

The silence became noticeable.

“Jolly soul, aren’t you?” she inquired,

after we had passed Idlewild Cemetery.

“T have been wondering if you meant
what you said back there.”

October 17,1925

“ About wishing to be driven home?”

“No.”

“Then back where?”

“Back at Fenwold. You told them, as I
heard it, that you intended to marry me,
and so it would do them no good to go on
playing golf in the dark.”

“That’s correct, isn’t it?” she asked.
“That is, if you still wish to marry me. I
assumed when I spoke that you did still
wish to marry me. You will recall that we
talked it over.”

I tried to think of a few simple English
words, and I got hold of three or four little
ones, but they stuck coming up and re-
mained stuck.

“You do still want to marry me, don’t
you, Leander?” Roberta asked, placing
her hand lightly upon my right arm, and it
is my right arm with which I do practically
all my steering.

“Naturally,”’ I began, using the voice of
a stranger, and a voice that I certainly had
never heard before.

I then ran the green roadster into a small
pine tree at the edge of the road, smashing
the right-hand fender and breaking off the
lamp.

“Heavens!” Roberta said, clutching me.

“It’s nothing,” I said. “ You shouldn’t
do that, ever.”

I climbed out and looked at the wreckage
and found it amounted to a trifle.

“TI think it will go,” I informed her.
“You should be more careful when I’m
driving, Roberta.”

“What did I do?” she inquired; and
then, without seeming to care for the an-
swer, she moved over to the wheel.

“T’ll drive the rest of the way,” she said.
“You just sit here quietly and think, or
we'll be having funerals instead of mar-
riages.””

Without the slightest objection, I leaped
in and took her seat and she began driving.
We clumped along briskly through the
ever-growing shedows.

“If you are really intending to marry
me,” I remarked, after going another mile,
“would it be all right for you to indicate it
by leaning over this way so that I can kiss
you?”

Roberta smiled. The soft night wind
was tossing her hair about and her hat was
coming off a bit. She leaned over my way
as requested. You don’t always
have to be a golfer in Westchester.

QRAWN BY RATE COLLIER

The Policeman Forgets Himsetf in a Wax:Fruit Store

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for the best idea for fur-
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Here is a bona fide opportunity for some one
WOMAN to win a $100.00 gold prize by simply
making one practical suggestion.

Three years ago all kitchen cabinets were practically
alike. None had exclusive features so important TO
WOMEN as to set it apart from all others,

Then we fostered a contest in The Ladies’ Home
nal in April, 1922, for improving kitchen cabinets. t
resulted in Mary Boone, Helen Boone, Bertha Boone and
Betty Boone, four wonder cabinets literally designed by
369 WOMEN in that contest.

And they have become the most talked-about cabinets
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greater utility. In three short years the Boone Sisters have
saved the WOMEN of the world millions of steps and
hours,— genuine emancipation from hot kitchen drudgery.

Now we come to YOU WOMEN again! How further
can kitchen cabinets be improved? Let YOUR kitchen be
your laboratory. For YOU WOMEN, in the kitchen,
KNOW far better than we men. We want to give you
better cabinets, even better than those YOU designed three
years ago— if this is possible!

For it was YOU WOMEN three years ago who put
the Desk Section in Boone cabinets giving a place for your
cook books, tickets and change, and a card index system for
your recipes. And it was YOU WOMEN who designed
the remarkable disappearing Ironing Board for Boone.

You gave Boone its Electric Light and Extra Socket for
your appliances, YOU suggested the Baby Ben Alarm Clock
which calls you when your cake or roast is done, and the
Arcade Crystal Coffee Mill. YOU gave Boone its mirror.
YOU made Boone the greatest kitchen cabinet in the world
by endowing it with the practical features WOMEN want
which today are exclusively BOONE FEATURES,

Now, what can YOU suggest tc further improve kitchen
cabinets?

To the woman who gives us the one best suggestion,
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Go to your kitchen — study your requirements — decide what YOU
would like to have in the way of a practical improvement in or on a kitchen
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ments DESIGNED BY 369 WOMEN three years ago- Send your letter to
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Lebanon, Indiana

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

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| winter.

repeat the process there. This is possi-
ble because of the reversed seasons. These
migratory Latins never feel the pinch of
Such a procedure is highly advan-
tageous for the human swallows, but it is
not so beneficial for Argentina. These Ital-
jans are birds of passage who take most of

| their earnings out of the country.

Last year witnessed a repetition of what
had been going on during the two preceding
decades. The total immigration was 153,-
072 compared with 212,485 for 1923. The
Italians came first with 62,244, leading the
Spaniards by a big margin. One reason was
the improvement of economic conditions in
Europe.

Although immigration has more or less
declined, there is still a big movement, more

| especially when you consider its numerical

| ond isthe big colonization project

| ernment auspices, which will be

| many aliens have found nothing

| eigner.

Greet he Curtis
Business Boy!

E comes smiling to the door of
your home or office. He re
moves He stands erect.
Then he speaks, politely. He
has a definite service to offer you.
Every Thursday he will deliver to

his cap

: |
you the latest copy of The |
Saturday Evening Post.

This service costs you no more
than the price of the copy bought
in any other way,
Of course, the boy is compensated. He
receives a cash commission for his sales
He earns valuable boys’ Prizes — not toys,
but radio sets, baseball equipment, bicy
clea, ete. Ashe progresses in his business,
he is given other awards which contribute
to the development of his ability and
charac tet
Perhaps you would like to learn more
about our Vocational Plan. Maybe you |

know several bright-eyed, energetic lads
in the United States who would be
a profitable spare-time
f their own

Pleased to start

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Write us the names, addresses and ap
proximate ages of your young friends and
we will be glad to send them (and you,
too) the full particulars

The Curtis Publishing Company
867 Independence Square
Philadelphia

Pennsylvania

B
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Warranted not to Chafe
\ Get our Test Leg
( Booklet Free
EH. ERICKSON CO,

36 Washington A N.

Beginners

| as the present upheaval shows,

| tive agitation.

relation to the entire population. This
brings us to the all-important matter of
how Argentina does the job. It falls into
two sections. The first is the system in
vogue at Buenos Aires. The sec-

now being formulated under gov-

an antidote to some of the land-
selling propositions in which

but disillusion.

Before I describe what might
be called the immigration ma-
chine, it may be well to state the
restrictions that Argentina has
placed upon the incoming for-
Every agency is brought
to bear to exclude the city type
of immigrant. By him is meant
the unskilled alien who insists
upon congregating in the large
communities. He lays himself
open to insidious political ex-
ploitation, and is the nucleus of
a proletariat which almost in-
variably becomes a menace to
peace and order. Whether in the
United States, Europe, or China,

he provides the best soil for Bol-
shevism. If we had taken these
precautions years ago we would
have been spared much destruc-

A Ban on the Unskilled

Argentina excludes the un-
skilled for the reasons that I have
mentioned, and also because
enough common labor has already
found its way to the industrial
centers. The urgent need of the
republic is primarily for agricul-
turists. Therefore the farm
worker is admitted, provided, of
course, that he can meet physical
requirements. The second reason
why the rural laborer is so essential is that
Argentina is not a great industrial nation.
The backbone of her wealth is the soil, and
her destiny is bound up in it.

A third reason is that nearly 2,000,000
persons, or one-fifth the entire population,
reside in Buenos Aires, and another 1,000,-
000 in the large provincial centers like Ro-
sario and other cities. It is important that
this divergence from a proper proportion
between urban and suburban populations
be remedied.

After agriculturists, the biggest demand
is for skilled workers; that is coopers, lock-
smiths, gardeners, coppersmiths, glaziers,
shoemakers, small traders, shopkeepers and
woodworkers, In other words, the type of
simple artisan essential to the upbuilding of
a community.

The only actual exclusion practiced in
Argentina is against the Greeks. There is
no immigration treaty with Greece. Japa-
nese are eligible for entry if they come, not
as immigrants but as “ individuals,’’ as the
Argentines term it. Chinese can come in
under the same conditions. No financial

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

THE SOUTH AMERICAN MELTING POT

(Continued from Page 46)

stipulation such as obtains in the United
States is imposed. The new arrival can en-
ter with empty pockets.

When I asked Dr. T. A. Le Breton, Min-
ister of Agriculture, under whose depart-
ment the immigration machine functions,
what he considered the best material for
assimilation as well as service, he replied:

“We are anxious to get as many Span-
iards and Italians as possible. They lend
themselves admirably to our life and our
needs. Moreover, we are making every
effort to check the swallow immigration.
We want the harvesters to settle in Argen-
tina, once they come.”

An interesting point of view about immi-
gration was projected by a distinguished
Argentine diplomat whom I met on my
way back to the United States.

Among other things he said:

“While we appreciate the value of the
Italian and the Spaniard, we want Anglo-
Saxons above all others. If we could get a

Pascual Barburizza, a Stav Immigrant Who Became
One of the Nitrate Kings of Chile

big influx of your countrymen it would
mean an important step in our develop-
ment.”

It is high time, however, that we examine
the immigration system at Buenos Aires.
I spent a whole day at the station and left
it with a feeling that I had touched one of
the most efficient public institutions that
I have yet encountered anywhere in the
world.

All immigrants are examined at quaran-
tine. Hence when they arrive at the “im-
migration hotel,”’ as it is called, those who
are eligible for residence in the country can
go through the mill at once. This hotel is
worthy of special description. It is a huge
four-story structure with the River Plate
behind and a beautiful park with fine shade
trees and many patches of flowers in front.
Viewed from a distance it might be a sum-
mer hotel by the sea. It is scrupulously
clean and the food is excellent.

Every immigrant and his family are en-
titled to free lodging with food for five days.
If they are unsuccessful in finding employ-
ment this period is extended. I saw one

October 17,1925

German family that had been in the hotel
for three weeks. This is an exception, be-
cause locations are found through an ad-
mirable system, which I shall now explain.

Just as soon as the immigrants have
bathed and been allotted to their bunks in
the dormitories, they are mobilized in a large
hall, where motion pictures of all the agri-
cultural and other sections of the country
are shown. If the immigrant is a farmer he
can select the part of the country where he
wants to settle. It may be a sheep or a
cattle region, or a wheat and corn area. He
is able to adapt his previous experience and
knowledge to the new field. This is the
scheme for the land worker.

For the artisan another plan is in op-
eration. Every factory and community
throughout Argentine sends a weekly bulle-
tin of its needs with the wage schedule to
the immigration station. These bulletins
are posted in German, Italian, Czech,
French, Slovak, Russian, and sometimes
Hungarian on a huge board. The
immigrant is enabled to read them
in his own language and select
his job. On the day of my visit
Rosario, for example, had need of
20 bricklayers, 30 carpenters, and
5 locksmiths.

The Immigration Station

Attached to the employment
agency is a complete transporta-
tion bureau. Luggage labels on
every railroad and to every sta-
tion of any importance are pro-
vided. It means that Hans
Schmidt, who has arrived from
Hamburg with his family and who
wants to go to Mendoza, which is
the center of the fruit and wine
district, can obtain his ticket,
check his boxes, and go straight
from the immigration hotel to
the railway station without any
outside effort. Moreover, the im-
migrants can have their foreign
money exchanged on the best pos-
sible terms at a branch of the
National Bank, which is one of
the many departments in this
immense establishment. Most of
the immigrants that land at
Buenos Aires have sufficient funds
to take them to their destination.
Those unprovided with cash can
get an advance from their future
employers.

The system works so smoothly
that there is never any congestion
at the station. On the day that
I selected for inspection, two big
steamers, one Italian and theother
German, had arrived in the early
hours of the morning. A total of
540 immigrants came ashore. By
lunchtime every one had received his yel-
low ticket, on which was inscribed the num-
ber of his bed and the letter of the dormitory
where he was to sleep. His luggage had
also been placed in a large warehouse where
it was easily accessible, and his pedigree
had been taken.

I talked with many of the newly arrived.

One big Pole came up and said proudly,
“I speak English.”” When I asked him
where he had worked, he replied that he
had lived six years in Cleveland, had gone
back to Poland for his wife, and had then
discovered that on account of the quota
they could not return to North America.
He was a blacksmith.

A Hungarian baker who overheard this
conversation butted in, saying, “This guy
hasn’t anything on me. I lived in Chicago
when I was a kid.”

He had gone back to Budapest to get
married and, like the Pole, found himself
outside the quota.

These immigrants, as well as all the others
with whom I conversed in a variety of
(Continued on Page 191)

THE

Whiz

Gear Grease

Makes Gears
Make Good

UPPOSE your car's
gears had no lubri-
cant at all! This is how
they would look—chip-
ped, battered and badly
worn for lack of lubri-
cation. Friction means
gear destruction.

With poor
or insuffi-
cient lubrication the results
would belittle better. You
would have excessive
wear and tear, unsatisfac-
tory service from your car
and eventually trouble and
repair bills that could have
been easily
avoided.

Gears kept greased with
Whiz Gear Grease will
remain in their original
perfect condition almost
indefinitely, because they
will always have be-
tween them a durable
protective film of pure
lubricant that minimizes wear and
noise under all driving conditions and
in all kinds of weather.

High temperatures will not make
Whiz Gear Grease “run” and lose
its body and low temperatures will
not cause it to stiffen and “charinel.”’
It clings to the Gears, always forming
a filmy cushion between the metal
parts, preventing wear and noise.

Drive to your @/Azz Dealer. Point to
his big @/Azz Gear Grease Drum
and say “ That’s what I want!’’—or,
if you want to lubricate the gears your-
self, you can buy @/Azz Gear Grease
in factory-filled cans.

Whiz Gear Grease is one of the 98
Whiz Quality Products.

The R. M. Hollingshead Co.

General Office and Factories

Camden, N. J., U.S. A.

Branches in 42 Principal Cities

CEAR cases FILLED
WHILE youWAIT 3

O
d 60
“ING SHE AD

a

SATURDAY EVENING POST

ly

2)

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

With the easy flexing and buoyancy
that means real Balloon Tire comfort
—Cupples Balloon Cords have the
toughness and strength that means
miles of wear-resisting service. The
4 and 6 ply models are aristocrats in
appearance, And they have the one
big quality all aristocrats admire. That's
their-fighting heart! It's made of

OVER-SIZE CORDS -

EXTRA HEAVY CORDS

Look for the Rhino! It’s the trade-
mark of an institution whose reputation
for integrity has been unquestioned
throughout seventy-four years of manu-
facturing experience. It’s your guar-
antee of dependable mileage value.

BALLOON CORDS + INNER TUBES

CUPPLES COMPANY, St. Louis
A National Institution Since 1851

rIiRE

supplies

=
|
Had
a)

Ss TUBES

|
\

October 17,1925

Tough as a Rhino”

honest rubber. Ask for a Cupples
Balloon Cord and a Cupples Grey
Balloon Tube at the nearest dealer's.

r

—

———
= ——n

(Continued from Page 188)
tongues, assured me that they were eager
to go to the United States, but the quota
system barred the way.

Significant of the unrest in Europe was
the presence of many Hungarians from
Transylvania. This was formerly Hun-
garian soil and went to Rumania as one
of the prizes of war. It is another Alsace-
Lorraine and a cause of constant jealousy
between the two countries. There were also
many Polish Jews. I refer to them, be-
cause presently we shall get to the Hebraic
colonies, which provide a picturesque
principality in the Argentine league of na-
tions.

I was interested to find that, with the
exception of a few women who had come
in the hope of finding employment as serv-
ants and a handful of Jewish traders from
Poland, every one of the 540 immigrants
who passed muster that day was skilled in
some trade. Another outstanding fact was
that there was not a single Russian from
the confines of the Soviet domain in the lot.
I went through the lists for the past five
years and was unable to find the record of a
single Bolshevik passport. As a result of
the careful watch kept at Buenos Aires,
there is less radicalism in Argentina than
in any other South American country.

As an indication of the scrutiny main-
tained by the Argentine Government let me
add that when I went to Montevideo, a
night’s ride by boat from Buenos Aires, to
attend one of the sessions of the Christian
Conference, I had to get a special visa from
the Immigration Department in order to
eome back, despite the fact that I had a per-
fectly good visa to enter the country.

Colonization Schemes

This individual type of immigrant is not
sufficient to meet the demands of Argen-
tina. What the country needs above all
things is colonization in a big way. This
leads us to the really vital problem. Al-
though some colonization projects which
exact adequate capital from the colonist,
have been successful, others have failed dis-
mally because they were merely land-selling
propositions, and the purchaser got no aid
from the seller. This procedure violates
the fundamental rule of all commercial
transactions, which is that both parties
should be satisfied.

In consequence the Argentine Govern-
ment, at the instigation of Dr. Le Breton,
has formulated a pretentious scheme for
colonization.

In sending a message to Congress em-
bodying the laws for the colonization proj-
ect, President De Alvear said:

“Immigration will not yield its utmost
benefit in connection with the real activities

of the country, nor will it improve our pro-
duction, if the difficulties which at pres-
ent hinder and obstruct colonization are
not removed. We must give definite and
permanent access to the soil to the rural
worker. For the worker, whether he be
tenant or partner, the feeling of actual
ownership of the ground he works is the
great stimulus to effort. We need more
smail farms. We need more small farmers.
The only way to get them is to assist them
to own their land.”

This is no new idea in Argentina, but en-
dowed colonization for years has been up
against a serious obstacle in the shape of
the opposition of the old and influential Ar-
gentine families, who control the bulk of the
land, as in Chile. They have steadily re-
fused to make it available for the small
farmer. Though the area of cultivated land
has increased slowly, there have been a
growing number of large properties in the
zones most intersected by the railway lines,
which are mainly used as grazing grounds
for the immense herds of cattle.

Nonproducing Farm Owners

The overhead carried by Argentine agri-
culture in the form of absentee ownership
is enormous. Only a country with a very
rich and productive soil could carry such a
load of nonproducing farm owners. There
has been no back-to-the-land movement in
Argentina for the Argentines. Again you
see that immigration and plenty of it is the
hope of the country.

The new colonization project, therefore,
calls for the expropriation of 50 per cent of
the larger estates if the proprietor himself
has not already colonized one-half of his
holdings or does not immediately take steps
to do so. The government is authorized to
sell the expropriated land in small parcels
on easy terms, and to establish or to pro-
mote credit, insurance and codédperative
institutions for the encouragement of agri-
culture.

At the time of my visit to Argentina last
April the colonization law had encountered
the usual opposition from the old feudal
families. They have, as elsewhere, a long
political pull and could make matters
extremely uncomfortable for any admin-
istration, however strongly it may be en-
trenched. President De Alvear, however,
is not the type of individual to be easily
bluffed out. He assured me that he would
concentrate every effort on the colonization
scheme, and it is very likely that it will be
adopted.

From this more or less uncertain govern-
ment land project, it is interesting to turn
to a phase of Argentine colonization which
combines romantic interest with the highest

(Continued on Page 193)

Robert C. Norris, Prestrige, McAlpin, Beaufort, Joseph Whitaker, (Standing),
Minchin, Lewis Demaret, William Pytes, Ezekial Pyles, (Seated) Survivors of
the Original Confederate Colony in Brazil

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

Ki
wat

w,

Feet that never
beg you to sit down

THE refinement of stylish shoes is required to com-
plete the smartest costume. Yet you also want foot-
comfort and foot-freedom to withstand the ceaseless
round of walking, climbing stairs, marketing.

Try on a pair of Arnold Glove-Grip Shoes. It
will be a revelation! Until you do, you never will
realize how wonderfully comfortable such smart,
fashionable shoes can be! The Glove-Grip feature,
patented and exclusive in Arnold Glove-Grips, gives
them a snugness and restfulness found in no other
shoe. Lacing them lifts up the arch instead of press-
ing it down. As a result your feet are soothed, sup-
ported, strengthened at the place they need it most.

Procurable in every fashionable leather for men
and women. Most models are $10 to $14. Write
us for the Arnold dealer’s address and book of shoe
styles. M. N. Arnold Shoe Co., North Abington,
Massachusetts. Dealers, write for Catalog P-24.

ARNOLD

GLOVE-GRIP SHOES

This extremely smart
new model is built on
our Pasadena last. A
fashionable calf two-
strap cutout that is
extremely popular.

Look for this
trade-mark. It is
inside and on the
sole of every
irnold Glove-
Grip Shoe.

‘XO Ear Could Tell What You
See In The Mirror—CThat He
Plays Without Touching the Keys

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

,

- 2

oe P 3

The Biggest Thrill in Music
is playing it Yourself

N MUSIC as in every human activity, it’s

your own participation that rouses your
emotions most,

it’s the ball you drive down the fairway
yourself that stirs your blood.

it’s the song that you sing yourself that
touches your heart.

it’s the number that you dance yourself
that entrances you.

And this human trait is even more pro-
nounced in the music that you play.

There is rapture in listening to the playing of others;
but in playing yourself there’s the thrill of personal
creation, the hush of ineffable sweetness, and the
flight of joy to heights no other music can attain.
It is here you find your supreme inspiration.

Only Piano of Its Kind

We admit that it seems incredible that untrained per-
eons can play like this—can play by roll, equal teplay-
ing by hand. Indeed it would be impossible were it
not for the Gulbransen Registering Piano, the only in-
strument of its kind in the world. :

For neither ordinary player-pianos, nor reproduc-
ing pianos can give you complete control of the keys,
the same as in hand playing. The Gulbransen alone
does this.

Hence you can play not “mechanical” music, but
human music, with the human expression—the Time,

The New Guibransen
GRAND

As a Straight Piano, $785
As a Registering Piano, $1275

And now even untrained persons can do it

You can play better by roll than
many who play by hand

And you can play ALL pieces while

they can play but a few

the Touch and the Tone Volume that you yourself
impart to it.

You can play a piano solo correctly, accenting the
melody od pw hed 2

Youcan play dance musicin perfect time andrhythm.

Youcan play an accompaniment for voices orinstru-
ments, subduing the melody to a whisper, pausing for
the singer, and playing only the bass or lower register.

Why Pianists Own It

You could not do more if you played by hand than
you can do by roll on the Gulbransen. And you could
not play so many pieces.

That’s one reason many pianists own the Gulbran-
sen Registering Piano, notwithstanding that this same
beautifully toned instrument is made without the roll-
playing action.

National Price—Suitable Terms

Gulbransen pianos are sold at the same cash price,
freight prepaid, throughout the United States. For
your protection, we stamp this price on the back,
where you can read it. And Gulbransen dealers
are prepared to deliver any model, Grand or Up-
right, for a small cash payment—balance to suit
the purchaser. A reasonable allowance will be
made for your present piano, if you own one.

Four Upright Models—Community, $450, Sub-
urban, $530, Country Seat, $615, White House,
pee Straight Grand, $785, Registering Grand,

1275.

The Nat'l Association of Piano Tuners rec-
ommends that all pianos be tuned twice a
year. Your Gulbransen deserves this care.

ULBRANSEN

The Registering Piano

Pieces they study, they can play by hand.
More difficult compositions by Chopin,
Rachmaninoff and others of the masters—
they can play by roll.

Then there are many who cannot read a
single note of sheet music who play by roll
on the Gulbransen beautifully, easily and
inspiringly. Who accompany artists who
would not sing to “mechanical” music—
whose only exception to hand-played ac-
companiments are those played by roll on
the Gulbransen Registering Piano.

This Free Book
“Your Unsuspected Talent”
Will Surprise You

Mail us the coupon today for our new illustrated
book de luxe—“ Your Unsus-
pected Talent —Its Discovery
and Enjoyment.” It reveals a
Treasure Trove of musical
compositions. It showsthe joys
of playing them at home.

With this book comes the
address of the nearest Gul-
bransen show room where you
can see and play all Gulbran-
sen models—Grand and Up-
right.

Mail the coupon now—In-
door Months are here. Let
music make home gay.

F SEND THIS COUPON

to Gulbransen Company, 3232 Chicago Ave., Chicago
for Color-Illustrated Book De Luxe

“Your Unsuspected Talent—Its Discovery

and Enjoyment”

Name

Address e

Cy.

Check here if you own a piano and we will send
you form chabling us to estimate value.

State.

October 17,1925

Gulbransen Suburban Registering
Piano, $530

Style S, same model in a Straight
Piano, $350

(Continued from Page 191)
possible success in the transplanting of an
alien race. The Jewish colonies are striking
illustrations of practical philanthropy.

All the Jewish colonies in Argentina are
under the direction and sponsorship of the
Jewish Colonization Association, which was
founded by the late Baron de Hirsch, who
was perhaps the most renowned philan-
thropist of his time.

He did for his coreligionists the world
over what John D. Rockefeller has done for
science and education, and on the same
princely scale. His total benefactions, with
those of his widow, who carried on his work,
aggregated nearly $100,000,000. Today the
sun never sets upon some evidence of his
generosity.

Although Baron de Hirsch was Bavarian
by birth, he was Austro-Hungarian by
domicile. He amassed a great fortune in
banking and in railway concessions in
Austria, Turkey and the Balkans. As most
people know, the Jews were subject to per-
secution as well as segregation in the old
imperial Russia. Baron de Hirsch offered
the Russian Government $10,000,000 for the
endowment of a system of secular education
to be established within the Jewish settle-
ments. The Jews in Russia had to live in
certain prescribed areas.

When the czarist régime declined to per-
mit any foreigner to be identified with the
administration of this gift, the baron de-
cided to devote most of his wealth to Jew-
ish immigration and colonization schemes.
To carry out this work he founded the
Jewish Colonization Association, an Eng-
lish company with a capitalization of ap-
proximately $60,000,000. This fund, which
cannot operate for profit, and which is one
of the greatest charitable trusts in the world,
has established colonies in South America,
Canada and Asia Minor. Among many
other benefactions Baron de Hirsch set
aside a large fund for the aid of Jewish im-
migrants in the United States.

The first Jewish colony in Argentina was
started in 1892. Since that time a steady
stream of Israelites has flowed in from Rus-
sia, Poland, Hungary, Rumania; in fact,
wherever persecution has raised its hand.
The majority, however, are from Russia, or
territory once a part of the old Russia.
You get some idea of the migration when I
say that in 1923, 13,701 Jews entered Ar-
gentina.

Altogether there are fifteen colonies, nine
of which—they are the largest and most
successful—are in the province of Entre
Rios. Others are located in the provinces of
Buenos Aires, Santa Fé, Santiago del
Estero, and in the territory of La Pampa.
The total land ownership of these colonists
embraces 542,240 hectares, while 150,000
additional hectares are held in reserve for
future development. A hectare is nearly
two and a half acres.

Bona: Fide Agriculturists

Colonists are obtained through agencies
of the Jewish Colonization Association in
Moscow, Warsaw, Bukharest, Budapest
and elsewhere. As the Argentine Govern-
ment demands documents which Russian
Jews cannot obtain, the association must
guarantee that they are bona-fide agricul-
turists. When it hears that Jewish families
are desirous of emigrating from Russia, it
sends an expert to investigate whether
these people are really farmers, and on his
report the permits are granted.

First of all, the association sends the col-
onist to Argentina if he is unable to pay his
fare. The land is sold to him at cost. The
settler receives a loan of $3000 with which
to purchase a dwelling, animals and imple-
ments. Both the land and the loan are repaid
in twenty annual payments with interest at
5 per cent. Sale of property is forbidden
until it is paid off, and titles are only
granted when all the debt is discharged.
Practically all the original colonists now
own their land outright. In one colony—
Mauricio, in the province of Buenos Aires—
the land has increased in value from the
equivalent of twenty dollars a hectare to

THE SATURDAY

$400. Each colony has adequate schools,
churches, a codperative society and a bank.

The nine colonies forming the group in
Entre Rios will serve to illustrate what has
been done. From 204 colonists in 1892, the
population has grown to 14,636 souls.
There are 1270 families. Here as elsewhere
the crops are wheat, linseed, oats, barley,
corn and peanuts. All the Jewish colonists
have become extensive cattle breeders.
They own nearly 200,000 head.

Just as the German colonies in South
Brazil are replicas of the Fatherland in cus-

toms and language, so are the Jewish com- |

munities of Argentina like slices out of the
old European life, with two exceptions. One
is that most of the colonists speak Spanish.
The other is that scores of the Argentine
teachers employed in the schools marry
into Jewish families without hindrance or
prejudice.

The significance of the Jewish agricul-
tural penetration into Argentina is im-
mense. It grows out of the fact that there
is no anti-Semitism in the republig. Ar-
gentina is likely to develop into a vast haven

for refugees from many lands, and espe- |

cially the Armenians and Russians now
stranded in various Continental cities.
The League of Nations is sending a com-

mission to Argentina and Brazil to find out |
exactly how many can be accommodated. |

Assimilated Races

The Jews are only one among many races |
in Argentina. Take Patagonia, which to |
many people is a wild waste populated |

mainly by Indians who prey on unsuspect-
ing voyagers. In reality it is one of the

richest sheep countries anywhere, studded |

with Welsh colonies in which muny speak
only the language of the stout little land
that Lloyd George helped to make famous.
The first Welshmen came to Patagonia in
sailing vessels and endured many hard-
ships. They knew nothing about farming
and became graziers. Soon after came a

large contingent of Scotch. Hence the |
phrase, “all the money in Patagonia is in |

the hands of the Scotch.”

Patagonia is typical of the general mix-
ture of races in Argentina. Most of the
wool production is under English control,
with Welsh and Scotch herders in charge.

The majority of shops are run by Turks or | Yff
Yy

Spaniards, financed by Germans.
While the Jews, Scotch and the Welsh

maintain their racial qualities to a marked |

degree, most of the other races become
thoroughly assimilated. Strange as it may
appear, this is true of what are known as
the River Plate Irish. They represent the
second stage of the famous migration from
Ireland to Spain after the Battle of the
Boyne. Thousands of Irish became identi-
fied with Spain and the Spanish. When the

Spanish exodus to South America began |
they joined the movement. This is why |

you find so many persons of Celtic extrac-
tion in Buenos Aires whose families have
lived in Argentina for two or three genera-
tions or longer, who have never seen the
Emerald Isle, and yet who have a touch of
brogue. One of the best-known of the Irish
immigrants, Captain Duggan, rose from
peon to be a cattle king. He married an
Argentine and his children are Argentines.

The Jugo-Slavs have also become thor-
oughly mixed with the Argentines, as the

case of F. Mahanovich shows. He began as |

a humble ferryman whose only asset was a
rowboat. He expanded his operations to a
point where he evolved what is practically
a monopoly of the local passenger traffic
between Buenos Aires and Montevideo.
His is a typical instance.

The most assimilative of all the races in
Argentina are the Spaniards and for rea-
sons that are obvious. The Italians, how-
ever, run them a close second. The second
generations of both the Spanish and the
Italians—that is, those who elect to remain
in Argentina—are Argentines in sentiment
and otherwise. Even the Germans who
can maintain their German citizenship un-

der the Delbriick law when they assume |

Argentine citizenship, become identified

-

EVENING POST

TO LOOSE

TURN LEFT TO RIGHT

Adjustable

Wrenches

N ORDER that everybody may get the utmost satis-

faction in the use of adjustable wrenches of ALL
makes, we wish to explain the simple and only correct
ways to use this class of tool.

In the case of a Pipe Wrench, when you
place it over a pipe (as in Figure 1) push
down on the handle; when you put the
wrench under a pipe (as in Figure 2) pull
the handle up towards you. If you use a
Pipe Wrench in any other way than as
directed, it will not “bite” the pipe but
simply slip off it.

In the case of a Monkey Wrench, exactly
the same directions apply, with this add-
ed warning, that if you use the Monkey
Wrench improperly the movable jaw is
very apt to spread and the workability of
the wrench is destroyed and the fault is
often attributed to some weakness in the
wrench rather than to the improper
manner in which it is used.

When you want to tighten a nut that is
in an Upright or Horizontal position,
place the wrench in the position outlined
in Figure 3 and turn from right to left.
To loosen, reverse the wrench position as
in Figure 4 and turn from left to right.

To make sure that the adjustable
wrenches you buy are the strongest,
most enduring, and of superior design,
insist on TRIMC and accept no other.

Made in eight STEEL handle sizes, 6, 8, 10, 14,
18, 24, 36 and 48 inches; in four WOOD handle
sizes, 6, 8, 10 and 14 inches.

At all hardware, mill and plumbing-supply stores

TRIMONT MANUFACTURING CO.
ROXBURY, MASS.

America’s Leading Wrench Makers for Nearly 40 Years

THE SATURDAY

Men relate

this simple way to get

a new thrill in shaving

Men the nation over are
awakening to the fact that
there is a general switch to
the Valet AutoStrop Razor.

Its sales have pyramided in
an astounding manner.

All because men are discovering
that a sharp blade for every
shave is a genuine luxury.

The Valet AutoStrop is the
only razor that sharpens its
own blades. A few strokes
on its strop restore a blade to
new-like keenness.

Sharpen it, then shave, then
clean—ali in a jiffy, and
without removing the blade
from the holder.

This is a different principle.
The blade doesn't get duller

and duller until it must be
thrown away.

Every shave can be with a
blade of super-keenness.

Have you fallen into a habit?
Do you continue your old
way of shaving?

Then join the thousands upon
thousands who have turned
to a new and better way and
whose enthusiasm never
wanes.

A speedy, comfortable shave
every time—uniformly perfect.
An end to “pulling.” An end
to wasting time.

“There's no shave like it,”
men say. Why miss this
supreme improvement?

Valet Auto-‘Strop Razor

REG. U.S, PAT. OFF

$5 two 825
Other sets
at $1

AUTOSTROP SAFETY RAZOR CO., 656 First Avenue, New York City

The RAZOR
That
Sharpens
Itself

EVENING POST

with the national life. Only a few young
Germans, or rather sons of Germans who
settled in Buenos Aires, joined the German
forces in the World War.

In this connection is a fact not generally
appreciated by North Americans. It is the
obligation for military service in Argentina
on the part of the children of Yankees born
in the country. Automatically they become
Argentine subjects and must do their bit
in the army or leave the republic. The only
escape is for their parents to declare them
as North American citizens at a consulate.

In view of this mediey of Spaniards,
Italians, Germans and Russians, to say
nothing of the Slavs, Jews, Welsh, Scotch,
French, Irish and Turks—it would take a
whole column to catalogue the rest—you
may well ask, who are the Argentines? The
answer is that all of them are. So inti-
mately have the aliens entered into the life
of the country that you never hear the ex-
pression “I am a German-Argentine”’ or
“T am an Italian-Argentine.”” The hyphen
is conspicuously absent throughout South
America.

Even the Argentine aristocracy, de-
scended directly from the original Span-
iards, have intermarried with the foreigner.
This has not prevented them from main-
taining the feudal system of land ownership
to which I have referred. They will not soil
their hands with trade. As a result 72 per
cent of the shop owners and 75 per cent of
the proprietors of the larger commercial es-
tablishments are aliens.

The next striking immigration exhibit is
disclosed in Brazil, where there are distinc-
tive features. For the first time in our survey
the negro is a factor. The North Amer-
ican also makes his appearance—it is the
only one—as contributor to the melting of
South American races.

Thereare three major elements in the pop-
ulation—the Portuguese, who discovered
the country; the African negroes, who were
imported as slaves for several centuries; and
the native Indians. The whites, and the
mulattoes who are the result of miscegena-
tion, account for 80 per cent of the people;
negroes from 12 to 15 per cent, and Indians
the rest.

European Influx to Brazil

Until comparatively recent years Brazil
had no color line as we know it. The
general point of view was that complete mis-
cegenation was inevitable and even desir-
able. More recently the line is being drawn
in some quarters. This change is partly in
response to foreign opinion on the question
of the mixture of black and white, to which
traveled Brazilians are increasingly sensi-
tive.

The Brazilian negro is more morose than
his American brother. He has added a note
of pessimism and morbidity to the national
character.

Apropos of the Brazilian negro is the little-
known fact that for years an effort was
made to establish a colony of North Amer-
ican colored people in the state of Matto
Grosso. All arrangements had been made,
when the movement encountered opposi-
tion in the Federal Congress and it was
abandoned.

Until 1850 white immigration was prac-
tically swallowed up by the black element
that came from Africa. Since that time no
Africans have arrived. Instead, there has
been a steady influx of Europeans, mainly
Portuguese, Italians, Germans, Spanish,
French and Turks. Immigration has not
been on the same scale as in Argentina—
the high tide was 192,683 in 1923-—but in
some respects, notably with the Portuguese
and the Italians, assimilation has perhaps
been more thorough.

In the aloofness of the old aristocratic
families from commerce you find the same
state of affairs as in Argentina. It means
that foreigners control trade and finance.
In the north the Portuguese, not descend-
ants of the original settlers, but arrivals
within the past five decades, are the masters
of business. The central section, or rather
the south-central portion, with Sao Paulo

October 17,1925

as the mainspring, is ruled by Italians, while
in the extreme south the Germans are all-
powerful. Whether Portuguese, Italian or
German, the heads of the once alien fam-
ilies, who include most of the merchant and
manufacturing princes, have become Bra-
zilian subjects and their children are thor-
oughly assimilated.

One reason why Brazilian immigration
has lagged behind the movement to Ar-
gentina is that it is under state, and not
federal, auspices. In one of the preceding
articles I pointed out that the various states
comprising the United States of Brazil have
much more authority, and are more self-
contained and autocratic than our com-
monwealths. Moreover, public lands belong
tothem and not to the national government.
The cession of large tracts of state lands to
individuals has made the problem of placing
immigrants extremely difficult.

It is interesting to find that most of the
state presidents are opposed to organized
immigration, as a questionnaire sent out
three years ago showed. The head of Rio
Grande do Sul, for example, replied that
his state needed all its reserves of land for
the future needs of the descendants of the
present inhabitants, who are largely Ger-
man or the offspring of Germans.

Brazil's Self-Made Italians

The only Brazilian state that organizes
and encourages immigration is Sio Paulo,
which imports thousands of Italians each
year to work on the coffee plantations. This
is one reason why the Italian is the domi-
nant alien both in the city of Sio Paulo,
where he comprises nearly 40 per cent of the
population, and also in the hinterland. Sao
Paulo, the community, is something of a
replica of Buenos Aires in its Italian flavor.
You see Italian names on signs everywhere.
The Italian banks are the most powerful.
Italian merchants and manufacturers lead
in the commercial field.

Nowhere in South America can you find
such an impressive group of self-made men
as among the dominant Italians in the city
of Sio Paulo. First and foremost is Fran-
cisco Matarazzo, who rose from peddler to
be the Hugo Stinnes of that southern
world. His chief industries are textile and
sugar mills, potteries, foundries and food
factories.

When I asked him to indicate the secret
of his success he replied, ‘‘ I look after every-
thing myself.” Here you have another
parallel with the late German industrial
overlord, who insisted upon carrying his
office around in his hat.

Another Italian, Rodolfo Crespi, turned
up in Sao Paulo as a poor immigrant lad.
Today he is not only the cotton king of
Brazil, for he owns a chain of textile mills,
but is also an extensive farmer, livestock
breeder, and large shareholder in the big-
gest coffee plantation of the state. So, too,
with Nicola Pugliese, who went from pov-
erty to eminence both as merchant and
manufacturer. A fourth is Pinotti Gamba,
also a one-time immigrant, who practically
controls the flour situation.

Although former Portuguese immigrants
are conspicuous in Rio business life, they
have many Italian competitors. Mata-
razzo’s rival for the title of Brazilian Croesus
is Giuseppe Martinelli, who arrived in the
federal capital without a cent in his pocket.
After working as a stevedore, he started a
steamship ticket agency and a small ex-
change business for the benefit of his coun-
trymen who came back and forth. This led
him into shipping.. When the World War
came Martinelli found his great oppor-
tunity. He organized, and still owns, the
Lloyd Nacional, which operates a fleet of
cargo steamers between Brazilian and Ital-
ian ports. He has many other interests.

A stock story told to every visitor in Rio
relates to Martinelli’s mansion, which is
an extraordinary creation of towers, tur-
rets and gables. There is a reason. Like
many Italians, Martinelli is superstitious.
Some years ago he consulted a fortune teller,
who told him that he would die as soon as

(Continued on Page 197)

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

ag Rage

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of a Grand Prize Eureka Vacuum Cleaner
{ This Offer May Be Withdrawn at Any Time }
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Think of being able to secure—absolutely free—
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out a penny of added cost!

Have a Eureka delivered to your home
for FREE use during housecleaning

Then, as a feature of the great Eureka National Ed-
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have a Grand Prize Eureka and Attachments delivered
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cleaning. Simply get in touch with the nearest Eureka
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below and we will see that you are supplied.

See the Famous Eureka “High-Vacuum”
Test on an Apparently Clean Rug

See the Grand Prize Eureka (with its dust bag removed)
passed back and forth over one small section of your
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This convincing test demonstrates
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clearly proves the remarkable effi-
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THE October 17,1925

SATURDAY EVENING POST

VV

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Residence of Dw.
Prank A. Evans,
Pittsburgh, inse
laied with 114" of
Armstrong's Cork.
board on cxterior
walls and 2” on
second floor stil.
ing. Alden & Hare
low, Architects,

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Made in boards 12 inches
by 32 or 36 inches—from
1 inch to 3 inches thick.

Cor

OusesS

The practical utility of insulation is recognised by Arctic
explorers and by the designers of ships for polar voyages.
A world-famous expiorer lined his cabin walls with cork,
and a vessel now building for Alaskan waters is to be

HE outstanding feature of the cork-lined

house is its year-round comfort. In winter,
it is uniformly warm all over the house, and
noticeably free from drafts. It has no “cold
side”’—-no rooms that “‘are hard to heat.” In
summer, even the upstairs rooms are cool, The
same cork lining that holds in the furnace heat
keeps the sun’s heat outside. ;

And why? It is very simple when you stop
to think of it. Building materials commonly
used are heat conductors; that is, heat passes
through them easily—which means hot rooms
in summer, especially upstairs, and in winter,
fuel waste, cold rooms, cold walls, and
drafts.

But Armstrong’s Corkboard is a non-
conductor of heat. An inch and @ half of Arm-
strong’s Corkboard has the heat-retarding
value of 24 inches of solid brick. Built into your
walls and roof, it makes them practically heat-
tight, and insures the protection from outside

ake Comfortable Homes

temperatures that makes a house a comfortable
home.

There is an economic feature, too, well worth
considering. The house that is insulated with
Armstrong’s Corkboard can easily be heated
by a smaller plant and with a fourth to a third
less fuel,

The cork lining of a house is easy and inex-
pensive to install. The methods recommended
for different types of building are briefly de-
scribed in the column at the right. Armstrong’s
Corkboard is non-absorbent and will not rot,
mold, shrink or swell. It is vermin-proof and a
fire-retardant.

Complete information on all phases of insu-
lating houses with Armstrong’s Corkboard
may be obtained by mailing the coupon to
Armstrong Cork & Insulation Company (Di-
vision of Armstrong Cork Company), 194
‘Twenty-fourth Street, Pittsburgh, Pa. In Can-
ada, 902 McGill Building, Montreal.

Branches in the Principal Cities

Armstrong's

Nonp

Corkboard

for Residential, Commercial and Industrial Buildings

ar

Insulation

cork-insulated,

1. An Excellent Non-Conductor of Heat
Armstrong’s Corkboard contains miliions of
microscopic cells, each one sealed by nature and
containing entrapped air—the best heat insu-
lation known except a vacuum,

2. Non-Absorbent and Sanitary
Armstrong’s Corkboard will not absorb mois-
ture and needs no furring strips. It does not
mold, rot or provide harboring places for rats,
mice or vermin. It lasts as long as the house.

3. Structurally Strong and Easy to Install
Armstrong’s Corkboard is strong in structure
and is easily naifed in place in frame buildings
or readily set in Portland cement mortar
against brick or tile.

4. An Excellent Base for Plaster
Armstrong’s Corkboard takes and holds plaster
permanently, No lath is required since the
plaster keys firmly into the surface of the
corkboard.

5. Slow- Burning and a Fire-Retardant

Armstrong’s Corkboard is slow-burning and a
positive fire-retardant. It will not burn, unless
flame is applied from an external source, and
does not smolder or carry fire.

6. Reasonable in Cost

Armstrong’s Corkboard costs no more than
good lumber. Furthermore, its use makes pos-
sible a considerable reduction in the size of the
heating plant and effects savings of 25% to
30% in fuel.

GenTLemen:

You may send complete information about
the insulation of dweilings with Armstrong’s
Corkboard.

Name

Address

(OATS PR nes heitoe™

—

(Continued from Page 194)
his house was finished. He therefore keeps
a staff of men constantly at work on altera-
tions and additions.

As in Argentina, the French, or rather
the descendants of the original French im-
migrants, have become powerful agencies
in the development of Brazil. The most
prominent, as well as the wealthiest, family
today is descended from Eduardo Guinle,
who emigrated from France in 1848 and
set up a small tailor shop in Rio Grande do
Sul, where he remained until he died. His
son, of the same name, went to Rio with a
schoolmate, Candido Gaffree, also the son
of a French immigrant who came over with
the elder Guinle. They established a bro-
kerage firm from which sprang one of the
great fortunes of South America. Gaffree
& Guinle built the great piers at Santos,
where the Sao Paulo coffee crop is trans-
ferred to an almost endless line of steamers.

The friendship between the first of the
Guinles and the Gaffrees resulted in a con-
tinuous association of the families ever
since. In addition to the Santos pier de-
velopment, they built the most imposing
office structure in Rio; they own public
utilities in the states of Bahia and Rio de
Janeiro, have immense realty holdings in
the city of Sio Paulo, and half a dozen big
cotton mills. The head of the Guinle family
today, Guilhermo Guinle, whom I met in
Rio, has been a frequent visitor to the
United States and speaks excellent Eng-
lish. Until the General Electric Company
launched its own business in Rio he repre-
sented them. He is head of the Gaffree and
Guinle Foundation, which has erected va-
rious hospitals. Guinle expresses the last
word in assimilation, because he is Brazilian
in every respect.

One phase of immigration in Brazil must
have a chapter all its own. It is the story
of the founding of Villa Americana, which
brings the North American—in this case it
would be a sacrilege to call him Yankee—
into the picture. Here is unfolded a little-
known and dramatic adventure in coloniza-
tion overseas.

To get the beginning we must go back to
the dark days following the Civil War,
when thousands of demobilized Confeder-
ate soldiers returned home, poor and
disillusioned, after years of gallant and un-
availing struggle. They found their lands
laid waste and the still despised Yankee
establishing himself in their midst.

Dixie Land in Brazit

Among the many Alabamans who had
served throughout the conflict and who
could not stomach the terrors of recon-
struction, was Robert C. Norris. He looked
about for a suitable place in which to settle
and decided upon Brazil, where slave-
owning still flourished. Accompanied by
his father, Colonel William H. Noiris, he
set sail from New Orleans for Rio. They
were almost the first North Americans to
go there with the idea of settling.

From Rio the Norrises. made their way
to Sio Paulo by train. What is now the
flourishing capital of the state of the same
name was an overgrown village. Robert
Norris could have bought property for the
equivalent of one dollar an acre that is

THE SATURDAY

today worth a fortune. He rejected these
opportunities. Loading his few goods and
chattels in an oxcart he walked sixty miles
to the north where he founded the com-
munity of Southerners which came to be
known as Villa Americana.

Once established, Robert Norris sent for
his family. They left New Orleans in a
small sailing vessel and were seventy-nine
days on the way, having been blown over
to the Cape Verde Islands by adverse
winds. For weeks they were given up as
lost.

During the following six months fifty
families, mostly from Texas, Tennessee
and Alabama, followed the iead of the
Norrises and settled in or about Villa Amer-
icana. So important did the community
become that a North American consul was |
sent out. |

The colonists were successful from the
start. They laid out extensive sugar-cane,
corn, cotton and bean plantations and be-
came extensive cattle breeders. One of the
original members of the colony, who was
familiarly called “Uncle Joe’ Whitaker
and who had the proud distinction of never
having shaved in his life, brought the first
watermelon seeds known in Brazil. He and
his associates pioneered what has become
an important Brazilian crop. It got a tre-
mendous jolt in 1898, when all the melons
were seized and destroyed by the govern-
ment because of the belief that the melons
spread yellow fever.

Today Villa Americana is a bustling town
with railroad station, churches, shops and
paved streets. It has lost much of its
original North American character because,
as elsewhere throughout Central Southern
Brazil, Italians have swarmed in. Among
other things they raise so many watermelons
that any profit in the crop has vanished.

|
|

A Warning From Washington

The North Americans are now in the
third generation and many of the children
speak only Portuguese. I met the son of
one of the original settlers at Rio and his
English had a strong foreign flavor. De-
spite this assimilation, the descendants of
those pioneers of the sixties still keep in
touch with the United States. Many still
operate the farms of the fathers. Others
have achieved distinction in commerce and
the professions. Dr. Franklin P. Pyles, the
son of E. B. Pyles, who was a Morgan
raider in the Civil War, and who was in the
early group of colonists at Villa Americana,
is one of the most distinguished surgeons of
Brazil.

A small band of former Confederate sol-
diers set up another colony at Santarem in
Northern Brazil in the late sixties. They
hailed mainly from South Carolina and
Georgia and became sugar planters. As-
similation there has been more intensive
than in Villa Americana. Some of the
colonists married Portuguese, and English,
as a language, has practically disappeared.

A North American Government official
who visited this place last summer over-
heard an aged woman who had come out
with the pioneers say in Portuguese, “ God
won't let me go back home to die.’ Al-
though she spoke in a foreign tongue, the
old South called to her.

COPYRIGHT BY HILEMAN

Lake McDonald, Glacier National Park, Montana

EVENING POST

mS nFe
Universal Vacuum, John

How flat this meal would be without our favorite beverage at
just the right temperature. What a greet improvement this
UNIVERSAL Bottle has proved to be with extra cups and
folding handles all nested in the cover.

The Rust Proof construction throughout of all nickel plated
UNIVERSAL Bottles, one of which is illustrated above, makes
it unquestionably the finest product of its kind and worth many
times over the slight additional cost, Every UNIVERSAL
Bottle is American made throughout. Every filler, which is the
unseen heart of the Bottle, is of first quality, is protected by a
patented shock absorber, insulated by an efficient vacuum, in-
spected, and subjected to a ngid twenty-four hour temperature
test before packing. You cannot see these things, but when you
purchase a Vacuum Bottle the UNIVERSAL Trade Mark is
your guarantee of quality, inside and out.
SOLD BY ALL GOOD DEALERS
Write for Booklet No. 109 showing many other UNIVERSAI
Vacuum Specialties, a few of which are shown in the border

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Lunch Box $2.85
others $2.00 to $3.50

Vacuum Pitchers

$8.50 to $15.50

Vacuum Carafes
$7.50 to $11.00

THE SATURDAY

Each an ace
in its class

OWER aplenty that folds ’em up

like a rubber boot when they’re
ridin’ high and goin’ like sixty. That’s
what some shooters want. That’s
‘ what you get in Ajax Heavies—the
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Then there are the fellows who are
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without straining the pocketbook.
For them, there is the Defiance—a
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type powder called No. 2 Smokeless.

And finally we have a group of
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shoot the Climax—the old reliable,
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Ajax Heavies, the Defiance, the
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United States Cartridge Co., 111
Broadway, New York, N. Y.

Shot-Shells

A LOAD FOR EVERY PURPOSE
AND A SHELL FOR EVERY PURSE |

EVENING POST

More recent North American colonists in
South America have not fared so well as
the vanguard of the sixties, as the outcome
of various land schemes in Peru and Bolivia
indicates. Incredible as it may seem, scores
of our Western farmers have been lured by
prospectuses to sell out at home and start
all over again in alien countries. In nearly
every instance the enterprise has ended in
disaster.

So numerous and unsuccessful are the
propositions that have attracted North
Americans to their financial, and often
physical, undoing beyond the equator that
the Department of Commerce has issued a
special warning against them. It hit the
nail squarely on the head with the follow-
ing statement:

“Year after year these schemes unfold
their luminous promises of quick wealth,
exact their toll of the gullible and ignorant,
and leave in their wake broken fortunes,
ruined health and bitter memories. The
Middle and Far West, particularly during
the farming-depression periods, furnish the
most fruitful field for their operations. The
sponsors may be either deliberate rascals or
poor deluded visionaries, but the inevitable
results are the same. Their basic stock in
trade is usually a fabulous acreage, located
in some far-distant clime, far enough to
make investigation difficult and to prove
once more that ‘distance lends enchant-
ment,’ title to which they have actually se-
cured at a price rarely exceeding two cents
an acre. The promoter’s selling price is
usually from two to four dollars an acre.”

The usual reasons why these undertak-
ings fail are that they are situated at too
great a distance from marketing centers or
railroads leading to marketing centers; un-
favorable climate; doubtful title to the
land; unfriendly native sentiment toward
foreign agricultural settlers and ignorance

of the language and customs of the country.

The Department of Commerce circular
contained an instance of what frequently
happens after colony collapse. It was sent

October 17,1925

in by a government official resident in a re-
public in which one of the North American
farm colonies failed. Here it is:

“A typical case of what happens to
English-speaking settlers in this country is
afforded by a case of a farmer from Texas,
who came here with a wife, family and
$20,000. The father died and the family
has sunk until they are below the level of
the primitive barefoot Indians among
whom they live. They chew coca—the
plant from which cocaine is derived—work
at times for 15 to 20 cents a day, and are
utterly degraded.”

Though this article has already run its
normal course, a final word is necessary re-
garding the Japanese penetration in South
America. With approximately 100,000
Nipponese planted in Peru, Brazil and Ar-
gentina, the way has been cleared for a big
movement. Peru for the moment is the
principal objective. Neither here nor else-
where is there any ban against their admis-
sion. Séo Paulo offers them inducements
to enter.

That Japan regards all Latin-America as
her principal stamping ground of tomor-
row is evidenced by the many immigration
companies that have been formed in Tokio,
Yokohama and Kobe to finance individ-
uals as well as groups who want to go there.
Last year the Japanese Government sent a
special mission to Mexico, Central America
and the leading South American republics
to investigate conditions preliminary to an
exodus of their nationals.

What was said in the beginning may now
be repeated at the end. Nowhere is there
such a significant blending of races as in
South America. All the peoples of the world
are being linked with the populations of the
vast continent to the south of us. This
mixture of bloods is bound to affect all
future progress.

Editor's Note—This is the ninth of a series of
articles by Mr. Marcosson dealing with South
America. The next will be devoted to merchandis-
ing.

Trees at Night

——
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The first cost is the last!

Unipower's first cost is moderate—and the first cost is the last because
Unipower has no tubes, bulbs, lamps or working parts that require frequent
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The standard Unipower operates from alternating current, 110-125 volt—
6ocycle. The 4-volt type is for sets using UV-199 tubes or equivalent and retails
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and retails for $40.00. West of the Rockies, prices are slightly higher. (Special
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FREE —write for interesting booklet, “Unipower, a triumph in radio power.”

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

Put UNIPOWER in your radio set ~

and put an end to the most frequent cause
of poor radio reception

i SOME CRA ASE SRO BA A li RA

Off when it’s on

with the inconvenience of operating your

set on dry “A” batteries—or the bother of
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What Unipower is
Unipower is a compact, scientifically designed
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N: longer is it necessary for you to put up

Unipower comes to you completely wired and
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Unipower is equipped with an exclusive Balkite
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Off when it’s on—On when it’s off

A unique feature of Unipower is the master-control
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Your radio dealer can supply you with Unipower.
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~ On when it’s off

200

Ghe Allen Shutter Front

Simple Construction

The Allen Shutter Front is built of finest materials
throughout, of simple yet durable construction.

rattles—-brass bearings throughout.

oN,

Wetmore Savage A. E. Co., Boston and
Springheld
David Sternbergh, Inc., Reading
The Brake Service Co., Cleveland
Holycross & Nye, South Bend
Reliable Auto Products Co., Columbus
Foster Auto Supply Co., Denver
Elin Auto Supply Co., Newark
R. W. Norris & Son, Baltimore
Auto Fron Spring Service, Inc., Buffalo
Toledo Automotive Equip. Co., Toledo
Western Motor Supply Co., Milwaukee
Albany Hdwe. & Iron Co., Albany
Baidwin Auto Parts Co., Detroit
Beck & Corbitt Co., St. Louis
Keiley-How-Thomson Co., Duluth
Minneapolis lron Stores Co.
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Western Battery & Sup. Co., Sioux City
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Pittsburgh
Reading
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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

(A Shutter front for Your [articular Car-

STANDARD EQUIPMENT ON ROLLS-ROYCE

Beautifully Finished

The Allen Shutter Front is beautifully finished in black
apan enamel and adds to the attractiveness of any car.

he dash board control is nickel finished.

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that she must not do anything that 4vould
be misunderstood by our smart, sophisti-
cated friends. Brother has a perfect horror
of being thought provincial.

So that we were utterly unprepared for
the astounding revelation she made that
afternoon at tea. I shall never forget the
shock of it. It was being such a perfect
afternoon. The house—the whole picture—
was perfectly charming. We had been for-
tunate in getting right on the bayfront. The
house had a wide veranda with some sort
of tropic vine with pale-blue blossoms, and
a green lawn leading to a sea wall and over-
looking the water. There were tall feathery
Australian pines and coconut palms, and
with the tea table in the corner of the ve-
randa and people sitting about in wicker
chairs or floating about the lawn it was
really lovely. There was a marvelous sun-
set beginning this evening, all a faint pearly
rose color with long wandering streaks of
silver on the wide floor of the water. For-
tunately I had on a little rose silk, embroid-
ered with silver roses, that was simply
perfect with it. And some of the smartest
people in town were there.

We had been very lucky in getting
Buchanan Boggs, the famous cowboy poet,
who came with that fat Mrs. Judson from
Palm Beach. She was simply mad about
Brother, but the trouble was she hadn’t her
divorce yet, so that he didn’t really con-
sider her seriously. Buchanan Boggs is so
splendidly virile, with his soft tie and his
great brown eyes and his way of looking
at one. They say he makes nearly five
thousand dollars a month, because his
poetry is printed in nearly six hundred
newspapers with his picture over it.
Everybody was wild to meet him, so it was
easy to get the right people.

There was the Countess di Ragusa, who
came with the MacMahons, those nice
inner-tube people; and Mrs. Wallace Dane
of Dane’s Cough Drops; and the Van
Burgs, whose father started all those Van
Bueg hotels and are simply too marvelously
cultivated; and Derry Trefry, the son of
the Trefry cotten mills; and Terry Gilbert,
who is poor but will be the next tennis
champion; and some nice rich girls whose
fathers’ financial ratings were perfectly
splendid, and who did nothing but sit
around and look longingly at Brother.
Madeleine Perkin, who was Brother’s
choice so far, brought her father, the tre-
mendously rich meat and cold-storage man
whom I really found very possible. He
is fairly handsome, with a reddish pleasant
face and iron-gray hair, and he has had his
money long enough so that he knows what
to do with a teacup. Heis a widower. He
simply insisted on sitting by me all the
time I was at the tea table. It made me
feel that even if Edmund Hill hadn't come
the afternoon was a complete success.
Edmund Hill was a man I hadn’t met yet,
but everyone told me he was the most
eligible bachelor in Miami, perfectly charm-
ing, and making a lot of money in real
estate. Rhoda Allen said she thought she
could bring him that afternoon, but at the
last minute she found he was too busy.
Everyone was perfectly delightful, anyway.
Mr. Perkin didn’t talk much, but everyone
else was gay and dashing and witty.

I was so proud of Brother. He was sim-
ply divine in a cream-colored silk suit,
leaning languidly against one of the big
white pillars where the leaf shadows fell
interestingly on his face. He absolutely
ignored all those girls gazing at him, and
played idly with a pale-pink hibiscus
flower, staring off over the lilac afternoon
sea with the most fascinating expression
on his face. He stood there dreaming all
the time that Buchanan Boggs was telling
us how he wrote his poetry, and what a
wonderful sense of rhythm he had, and
how he had never had to stoop to write
about depressing or unwholesome things.
I’m sure he would have been interesting
if Brother had not been so much more so.

When Buchanan finished, Brother turned
his eyes slowly so that he could look over
Madeleine Perkin’s head, and he began to
speak in his subtlest voice, like slow drops
of chilled honey. He said the most en-
chanting things about art and life, and
how the true artist in living must have the
subtlest emotions, unlike those of the herd,
but as delicate and attuned as blue sounds
and the touch of jade, fragile as Venetian
glass, and fragrant with overtones as a
porcelain bell touched lingeringly in star-
0 by a woman’s littlest polished finger
nail.

He let his words drop slowly in the
breathless hush the women made, and his
voice was a faint caressing murmur. When
he stopped speaking there was a long si-
lence, and Madeleine Perkin and Mrs. Jud-
son and Rhoda Allen all took deep breaths
and sighed. I slipped a glance from face to
face and was so pleased to see that Brother
had made a deep, deep impression. Bu-
chanan Boggs was simply forgotten.
Everyone looked absolutely enraptured—
except Daniel Perkin. Somehow, although
he was perfectly quiet and his face looked
calmly interested, I got the impression as
he looked at Brother that he wasn’t quite as
enraptured as the others,

That was the perfect, the exquisite mo-
ment, while Brother was still toying with

the hibiscus flower, that I saw Daniel Per- |
kin turn his head and stare at the doorway. |
There was a sort of flash in his eyes that |

made me turn and look too. And then the
cold chills suddenly went all over me, for
there stood Agnes. Not Agnes in incon-
spicuous white linen. No! In khaki trou-
sers. And a crumpled khaki coat. And
high boots. And a terrible hat. I was
aghast. I couldn’t say anything.

In that lovely hush she said in a loud
definite voice, ‘Can anybody here milk
a cow?”

I can’t—I simply can’t describe the aw-
ful result of that remark. I thought
Brother would have fainted. He dropped
his hibiscus flower. “verybody rustled and
turned.

laughed. Agnes buttoned her gloves.

“‘Good—goodness gracious, Agnes!”’ I
said. ‘‘What can you mean?”

She pointed her nose and the blackness of
her eyes full at me and said plainly, ‘I just
thought I’d ask, Vivian. The president of
the humane society telephoned me that
there is a carload of cows on a siding in the
railroad yards that haven’t been milked
for three days and they are miserable. I’m
going to get some men and go down and
milk the carload. If there’s anyone here
who can milk a cow I’ll be glad of an extra
hand. He can go along with me right now.
I say ‘he,’’’ she went on deliberately, looking
around at the faces which somehow seemed
to contract a little as she eyed them, “ be-
cause I dare say there isn’t a woman here,
except possibly the Countess di Ragusa,
who knows anything about cows anyway.”

For one moment I thought Agnes must
have gone insane. The countess simply
went scarlet and I saw at least three people
bite their lips. One of the first things they
always tell you about the countess is that
you must never, never mention anything in
her hearing that would remind her that her
first husband made his millions in a cheese
factory. I could hardly speak. And while
Brother was absolutely white with fury and
two or three of the girls choked back little
sounds that might have been coughs or
gasps or shrieks, Agnes turned on her
booted heels and strode back into the
house.

To this day I cannot understand what
happened to Daniel Perkin. He dropped
his teacup with a crash and moved toward
the doorway, saying loudly and clearly,
“Hey, Miss Agnes! Waitforme. I used to
be a champion milker myself.”

Poor Madeleine Perkin. I thought she
would go through the floor. She said

THE SATURDAY

GOODNESS GRACIOUS, AGNES

(Continued from Page 13)

It was perfectly ghastly, and to |
make it worse, I think Daniel Perkin |

EVENING POST

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EVENING POST

“Daddy!” in the most horrified tones, but
he didn’t pay her the slightest attention.
Brother stared at me and I stared at

Brother. All around us people began talk- -

ing with great animation and cheerfulness.
Of course the afternoon, with all Brother’s
wonderful effect, was completely ruined.
Madeleine Perkin was frantic about her
father. The Countess di Ragusa was furi-
ous and Mrs. Judson was wild because
Brother paid so much attention to Made-
leine. Everyone else wanted to go away
and laugh, I know they did. They all
trickled off. Brother got Madeleine and
Buchanan to stay in spite of Mrs. Judson,
and we went out to dinner together and

| some place to dance. The cowboy poet
| pointed out that his wonderful sense of

rhythm made him a perfect dancer; but
after a while I got tired and we all decided
to go home for drinks. On the way back
Buchanan tried to hold my hand, and I be-
gan to wonder if I would really like to sign
myself Vivian Page Boggs. That was why
I didn’t notice, when we turned up the
drive, that the lights were on in the kitchen.
But as we got out of the car I heard the
most curious sounds from there, loud sing-
I couldn’t imagine
what it could be. But I didn’t want Made-
leine to think that any of the servants were
drunk, so as soon as Brother had taken her
to the veranda I motioned Buchanan to

| follow me and we tiptoed to the kitchen
| door and threw it open suddenly.

Well! There stood Agnes. She was still

| in her disreputable khaki things and she
| was at the stove making coffee and frying

ham and eggs. Her hat was off, and the
white lock in her black hair stood up and

| waved in a perfectly abandoned manner.

If the color in her cheeks had not been so
carelessly streaked I would have thought it
was rouge. She was rattling the fork on
the frying pan while two utterly impossible-
looking men gat on the kitchen table and
sang Little Annie Rooney. Really, if I
hadn’t noticed especially that there wasn’t
the slightest odor of alcohol, I would have
said they were all intoxicated. One of the

| men I suddenly recognized with a shock to

be Daniel Perkin, in overalls, with his gray
hair rumpled. The other was a person I
had never seen before, in khaki trousers and
dreadful boots and a flannel shirt. He had

| reddish hair and the most impudent brown

eyes I had ever seen in my life.
“Goodness gracious, Agnes,” I said with

| hauteur, and they stopped singing to stare

| in the doorway.

at me and at Buchanan Boggs behind me
“T should think you had
done enough for one day without disturb-
ing the entire neighborhood.”

She turned and positively grinned at me
as if she was not and never had been a Page
of Titherington, Massachusetts.

“Hullo, Vivian,” she said _ cheerily.
“Muzzle not the ox that treadeth out the
corn. Come in and have a fried egg. Have
two fried eggs. Eddie,” she said to the
reddish-haired person, “ hew off some more
ham. Come in, Mr. Boggs, and help us fill
up the great open spaces. Danny’’—she

| actually called Mr. Perkin ‘Danny’—“ how

about another beaker of coffee for the
champion milker of the Flower State?”
Well, I was only thankful that Madeleine

| Perkin was not a witness to her father’s

| reversion to type.

It was bad enough to

| have Agnes a cousin. All I could do was to
| stare icily at that Eddie person, who was
| staring at me most impudently, and leave

the room in silent scorn. On the veranda
Brother and Madeleine were deciding to go
somewhere else to dance, but I was so dis-

| turbed I couldn’t think of leaving the house

with those men in it. Buchanan said he
didn’t want to dance, either, and when the
two others left he began pacing up and down,
flinging out his arms and telling me some
other things about his wonderful sense of
rhythm.

It was the most romantic setting one
could want, if one wanted to be romantic.
The long porch was streaked with white
starlight, and beyond the black lawn the
sound of the water was faint against the
sea wall, and the silver threads in my dress

October 17,1925

glimmered in the shadow of a big chair.
Buchanan Boggs looked splendidly virile
pacing up and down between the great pale
pillars and, of course, the conversation was
awfully cultural and superior, all about
poetry and art and life. And yet-I was
furious, because I was so angry with
Agnes, and especially that reddish-haired
person in the kitchen, that I wasn’t prop-
erly thrilled with all this. It was a perfect
shame that I had to go on thinking of cut-
ting things to say to them, instead of what
the cowboy poet was saying. I was just
thinking how I would simply love to shame
the impudence out of that person’s brown
eyes when I realized that Buchanan was
halfway through a proposal. My first pro-
posal in Florida and I had heard only half
of it! Of course that made me more furious
and before I knew whether I wanted to
make up my mind to accept him, I was re-
fusing him. So, of course, he went away
insulted and I stormed up to bed feeling per-
fectly vicious.

The next morning Brother pointed out
that, after all, the affair had made him con-
sider Madeleine more seriously, and that
our expenses were so large that we couldn’t
afford to ask Agnes to go home. As for
Buchanan, Brother said I could do much
better than that if I would only put my
mind on it. Brother felt that I hadn’t been
putting my mind on it. He warned me that
this Florida climate has a softening and
romantic quality which must be guarded
against. We must be icy and ruthless, he
insisted, for after all, our careers are every-
thing. Of course I felt that Brother was
absolutely right. We decided to hope that
Agnes had gotten rid of all her New Eng-
land inhibitions in one wild upheaval and
that she would now settle down in the
state of mind which we had expected of her.
And yet something warned my uncanny
sixth sense that we had not seen the last of
Agnes’ extraordinary behavior.

We hadn’t. Three days afterward the
president of the humane society, she in-
formed us, had had her made a deputy
sheriff, and she and Daniel Perkin went out
in the back roads to arrest negroes who were
abusing mules in the county road work.
Mr. Perkin told me about the way she did
it, and how she stood up and talked to the
judge in court about it as if it were the most
wonderful thing in the world. Then, of
course, there was a story in the local paper
about it, with Agnes’ picture and our name
right out in print that made Brother simply
rage. And yet, of course, he couldn’t say
anything to her about it, because Daniel
Perkin was Madeleine’s father and Brother
felt that Madeleine was falling in love with
him so much that it wouldn’t be wise to be
cold to her. But imagine! Negroes. Mules.
In court. I was simply appailed. I decided
to speak frankly to Mr. Perkin.

“Dear Mr. Perkin,” I said to him,
“Brother and I are so grateful for every-
thing you are doing for poor dear Agnes.
It means so much to her to have some atten-
tion from men. She’s never had it, you
know. Her life has been so cramped and
restricted. But I do wish you'd tell me.
You can speak frankly, you know. I’m her
cousin. Do you really think Agnes could
acquire any charm?”

It seemed to me that Mr. Perkin’s face
went a little pinker under his tan and his
bushy gray eyebrows lowered over his eyes.
I thought he answered me very strangely.

“Charm,” he snapped. so suddenly that
I jumped. “My dear child, you small
women do have the most peculiar ideas. I
suppose by charm you mean kittenishness.
Your Cousin Agnes has as much need of
kittenishness as an automobile headlight
has. She’s a good deal like that, you know.
One way, it blinds you, and in another way,
you can’t see without it. And I shouldn’t
worry about her life having been restricted
if I were you.”

“Oh, Mr. Perkin,” I said. “Of course I
wasn’t really—I mean, of course, it’s too
late, now that she’s so old. Only teaching
Latin all one’s life must make one just a
little—weil—peculiar, don’t you think?”

(Continued on Page 205)

i
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(Continued from Page 202)

He didn’t answer for a moment, just
ground his cigar end, and then he said,
“All of you seem pretty young to me. But
about the Latin, I’ve been getting Miss
Agnes to teach me Latin recently. I don’t
seem to get anywhere with all this art talk,
and it’s rather a comfort to get your teeth
into a crusty old language like Latin. First
sensible hard thing I’ve done since I’ve
been in Florida. Those old Romans were he
men. Practical too. If I’d known about the
way Cato the Elder handled that Carthage
affair, I could have broken the cold-storage
combine two years earlier. I’m pretty
grateful to Miss Agnes. And as for her
being peculiar, well, she doesn’t seem half
sO peculiar to me as all you skinny, sullen
little girls.”

Well, really! I thought Mr. Perkin must
be pretty far gone deliberately to insult me
like that. The awful thought came to me
suddenly that perhaps he was getting really
serious in all this. Perhaps he meant to ask
her to marry him. How perfectly awful
that would be for Madeleine. And there
was. Brother. Suppose Brother married
Madeleine and Agnes wouldn’t let: Mr.
Perkin settle enough money on them to
keep Brother in the best marble. I decided
to have a serious talk with Brother.

We decided to give a series of supper
dances on our own front lawn, to bring in
more eligible girls and men for us to con-
sider. And really, it was time, for here was
half the season gone and IJ hadn’t even met
Edmund Hill. We felt that as long as Agnes
didn’t dance there was nothing she could
do to be conspicuous. I can’t imagine why
I thought that would handicap her. It
didn’t.

Everything began so beautifully that
night. We had a few people to dinner, just
Madeleine and Mr. Perkin, and a new man
Brother was trying out for me. Agnes
was quite quiet and possible all during
dinner. She didn’t quote Latin things
that only Mr. Perkin understood, and that
sounded queer anyway, and she didn’t be-
gin telling anecdotes about mules in that
firm plain voice of hers. She just sat and
smiled, looking, for her, really quite well.
She was wearing her black satin evening
gown with the V front that makes her shoul-
ders look less square, and brings out the jetty
blackness of her eyes and the smoky black-
ness of her hair with the startling white lock.
I was pleased she looked so much like an
early Roman, because Madeleine had given
me a perfectly ducky silver-lace dress and
she had a gold one, and they were both
awfully thin and scant and marvelously
smart in contrast to Agnes’ solid black. It
was just the right background for us and the
men never took their eyes off us. Except,
of course, Mr. Perkin, but you could hardly
count him.

Out on the lawn the dance floor was a
pool of amber under the lights in the trees,
and the coconut palms were black against
the stars and there was a moon coming up
out of the bay and the orchestra was play-
ing and all the smartest people were coming
and there were two newspaper reporters
and cameramen with flash lights. We had
asked. everybody we had ever met and
Rhoda Allen had sworn she would bring
Edmund Hill. I was simply walking on air
and I made Daniel Perkin dance the first
dance with me. He danced rather like the
Washington Monument in a fog, but I was
just showing him what a lot he had missed
when he had chosen to be silly about Agnes,
when I looked up and here he was staring
over my head at the house, paying as much
attention to me as if I hadn’t been there at
all.

“What's the matter?” I said without
thinking.

“I don’t see Miss Agnes anywhere,” he
muttered absently, and while I was furious
with him for thinking about her just then, I
was relieved that she wasn’t in sight. I
thought it was a sign that she wouldn’t
break out at that dance anyway. But he
went on getting more and more absent-
minded, until I gave him up in disgust and
told him to go and !ook for her. I had to

THE SATURDAY

be back on the porch to speak to a lot more
people who were arriving. It was really
going to be a huge success. Everybody who
mattered was coming and a lot more who
hadn’t been invited, and while that was a
little awkward, still it is always a flattering
sign that it is considered smart to be seen
at your house. :

There seemed to be any quantity of the
most fascinating men whom Brother could
weed out afterward. I was radiantly happy
with the way everything was going until
Daniel Perkin came up looking perfectly
savage.

“Can't you find her?” I asked him ab-
sently, for I was staring at the most mar-
velous man coming along the veranda with
Rhoda Allen. He was tall and his hair was
a dull copper color and he looked perfectly
adorably stern and cross. There was some-
thing familiar about him too. I was racking
my brains to think where I had seen him
before and all the time my heart was beat-
ing simply terribly, because it might be
Edmund Hill. And it was. He looked down
into my eyes, and just as the shivers were
going down into my heels the most awful
shock went over me. For he was the
reddish-haired person that Agnes called
“Eddie” in my kitchen. Edmund Hill!
That one! I have no words to say how I felt.
I was just floundering around in the most

awful confusion, trying to think what I |

should think.

But before I could speak Daniel Perkin
was glaring at Edmund. “You're the
president of that humane society,” he said,
and everyone stared. ‘What do you mean
by sending Agnes Page out-alone to stop a
dog-and-wildcat fight?”

“I didn’t. What do you mean?” he
answered.

“Well, she’s gone. They say a phone
message came for her. Didn’t you send it?”

“Of course not. Think I’m crazy? When
did she get it?”

“About an hour ago.”

“‘ And she left immediately?”

“That’s what they say.” Mr. Perkin
breathed heavily through his nose. “Have
you any idea where this fight is?”

‘Out beyond Pleasant Glade Farm. Out
in the glades. They promised me they'd call
it off. Good Lord!”

“Well,” snapped Mr. Perkin, “they
must have called it on again. We're not
going to stand here and argue about it, are
we? I’ve got a car here.”

“Good,” Edmund Hill said.
borrow it?”

“You mean, can you go with me?”

“Who's arguing now? It’ll take both of
us. For heaven’s sake, snap intoit! That's
a rotten crowd out there. I'll leave word
for a bunch of deputies to follow us. Only
we've got to beat it now.”

“I’m with you,” Daniel Perkin said, and
they turned and ran toward the drive.

Well, you can imagine how I felt. Ed-
mund Hill, the president of the humane so-
ciety. Edmund Hill in khaki in my own
kitchen, intimate with my own Cousin
Agnes. Edmund Hill, the nicest man in
Miami, dashing away from my party on ac-
count of Agnes. That was the thought that
set me wild. And he was wonderful in a
dinner coat.

I couldn’t bear it. I simply left every-

“May I

body staring and before I really knew what |

I was doing I was dashing down the veranda
after them.

That is, I started to dash down the
veranda after them. Suddenly a hand

caught my arm and jerked me back and I |

locked up and it was Brother. His eyes
were staring at me coldly, and the little

white dents each side his nose, which show |

when he is in one of his cold rages, were
coming and going.

“Vivian,” he said, and gripped my arm,
“what does this mean? You are forgetting
yourself. You are forgetting me. Go back
to our guests.”

“Oh, Brother darling,” I said breath-
lessly, trying to tear myself away. ‘Oh,
please don’t stop me. Please. That’s Ed-
mund Hill with Mr. Perkin, and they’re
going off to stop Agnes from stopping a

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

wildcat fight and I—oh, I can’t let him go
without me!”

Really, Brother’s eyes were perfectly
frightening. They turned to little green
slits.

“Vivian!” he said. “Pull yourself to-
gether. It is not possible that you are
deliberately running after this Hill per-
son. Heisn’t important tous. The big man
behind him is Albert J. Swanson, who is
coming here tonight. He is the one you

I don’t believe in all my life I ever inter-
rupted before, or deliberately disobeyed
him. But this time it was as if he were
suddenly only an unnecessary shadow in a
Van Dyke beard who had not the slightest
interest for me.

“Let me go,” I said, and jerked my arm
out of his grasp. ‘‘ You’re hurting me. Oh,
they’re starting the car.”

And I ran down the veranda and down
the three steps, forgetting his voice behind
me even as I heard it. I was standing by
the car and my only feeling was that I was
glad I looked appealing and silvery in the
moonlight.

“Oh, please,” I said, “I want to come
with you too.”

It was utterly typical of the curious way
that Agnes made men act that they did not
instantly leap out and help me in. Edmund
Hill was working the starter and never
| even looked up, but Mr. Perkin turned his
| head and said gruffly, “You can’t come.”

I was boiling. ‘But I want to come,” I
cried to him, over the beginning noise of
the engine.

He never looked at me that time, just
shook his head. “Don’t want you,” I think
he said, but I didn’t stop to find out. For
as the car began to roll forward I made one
leap for the rear door, opened it and fell in,
just as it speeded up around the curve. It
was a minute or two before I could pick
myself up and get my breath, and then I
couldn’t tell whether those two men sitting
stiffly in the front seat, outlined against the
glare of the lights, knew I was there or not.
My heart was thumping so loudly I should
think they would have heard it, but I
didn’t dare to speak to them for fear they
would take me back. I just glued my eyes

| on the awfully nice back of Edmund Hill’s

head and made up my mind that I wasn’t
going to be done out of anything this time.

Pretty soon it wouldn’t have made any
difference whether I made any noise or not,
because the car was going at such a fiendish
rate they couldn’t have heard me anyway.
In two minutes I had no idea where we
were or in what direction we were going.
First we were jerking through traffic, with
the city lights streaming past on each side,
and then we were on the Tamiami Trail,
with the street lights blinking with alter-
nate patches of dark, and then we were
turning corners among more lights, and
then we were going faster than ever on a
horribly bumpy road, with no lights at all
anywhere but the white lights of the car
itself and the searchlight fixed on the edge
of the road, with tall weeds and insects sud-
denly bright streaming through it. All I
could do was to hang on tight and keep my
lower jaw relaxed so that I wouldn’t bite
my tongue off when we hit a bump. The
car rocked and creaked and shivered.

Out beyond the lights of the car there
were fewer and fewer trees looming up
blackly against the star dust of the sky, and
there was a cool wet wind blowing and a
sense of flat, dark vast-reaching country.
Furious and bruised and beginning to be a
little frightened as I was, I thought the wind
smelled deliciously of dew on sun-dried
grasses. And once when Edmund—I was
thinking of him as Edmund by that time—
went slowly because of a terribly bad place
in the road, I looked out and saw the whole
arch of the sky spattered with stars set over
the level black saucer of the earth. It
seemed to me we were miles and miles and
miles away from everything and everybody,
alone in the very middle of the Everglades.
Once when they stopped the car dead to
argue about a crossroad, I could hear the
blood roaring in my ears, the insect noises

October 17,1925

in the nearest grass, it was so still. Imagine
Agnes driving all this way herself and put-
ting us to all this trouble. Why hadn’t she
at least taken Daniel Perkin with her? I
remembered then that I had been dancing
with him; but even so —— I felt then that
I could have spoken to her pretty sharply.

Then we were off again, bumping and
banging and rocking through the dark at an
absolutely ridiculous rate of speed. Once
when I was thrown violently forward I
cried out to them not to go so fast, and
Daniel Perkin started and looked around
at me in astonishment, so I knew he hadn’t
known I was there. But that didn’t make
them go any more slowly. Away ahead of
us the red light of another car was scooting
and we were gradually catching up with it.
I thought for a moment it was Agnes’ car,
and I hoped they’d catch it so that I could
tell her exactly what I thought about drag-
ging Edmund Hill away from my party,
and yet when it turned out not to be hers
I was glad, because I didn’t want him to see
her so soon.

The car ahead turned suddenly up a dirt
road that ended in a dark group of build-
ings and switched its lights off. Edmund
parked beside it and switched off his. He
and Daniel Perkin waited, looking around
them. There must have been a lot of dark
cars in the yard. I could see them faintly
humped against the sky. Across the yard a
low dark building like a cow shed had
gleams of light showing. They must have
been cracks in window shutters. When the
dark figures of two men went over to it and
knocked on a door, only a narrow oblong of
light showed where it was opened to them
and where they squeezed through. Through
the open door came the dull suppressed
murmur of men’s voices. That murmur,
with a queer sort of excitement in it, and
the horrid darkness of everything with just
the hurried cracks of light, frightened me.
But before I knew it Edmund Hill and Mr.
Perkin were out of the gar and walking
quietly toward the building. First I could
see them, and then their figures were
blotted out against the bulk of dark. And
there I was alone in the car, shivering in the
cool Everglade air. Suddenly far away a
dog barked, and from a shed near by, so
horribly loudly that I almost screamed,
some dogs began howling. It was perfectly
terrible. I simply couldn’t sit there alone.

But when I got out of the car and started
out in my best silver slippers across that
muddy ground, suddenly I had the most
awful feeling I ever had in my life. It was
as if all that dark stretched out and
stretched out enormously around me, and
the stars shot up a million miles away over-
head and there I was alone and shivering in
the middle of it. And nobody cared. My
feet were wet and any moment I might have
been eaten up by those horrible howling
dogs and nobody would care. I felt awfully
angry with Brother for letting me come like
that. He should have stopped me. And
then I had a sudden feeling that it didn’t
matter to Brother anyway. All he cared
about was making a rich marriage, and he
wanted me to make a rich marriage only
because that would be good for him. I saw
him then as if he were a tiny little figure
seen down at the end of a long tunnel.
Right then I knew I didn’t want to make
that kind of marriage. I didn’t want all the
awfully straining effort of it. I didn’t even
want to be artistic. All I wanted was just
somebody to keep me from feeling so lost
and so little and so awfully lonely. And
he’d gone on after Agnes just as if I hadn’t
existed. I called once to Mr. Perkin, but all
I heard was somebody saying ‘‘Sh-h-h” and
those terrible dogs that were still howling
and howling. So finally I had to run
through mud and wet grass over in the
shadow where Mr. Perkin and Edmund
were. I found Edmund’s arm and clutched
it and he turned and looked down at me
once and went on peering through a crack.

““What—what are you going to do?” I
whispered.

‘She isn’t in there anywhere,” he whis-
pered back, and went on peering.

(Continued on Page 209)

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 207

Which car will you drive this winter

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST October 17,1925

OY

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T H EY H OLD TH ET R SHAPE

{
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(Continued from Page 206)

It made me furious. I caught at his arm
again. ‘What makes you think she came
here?”

‘Shut up,” Mr. Perkin said softly, on the
other side. “Her car’s here. Can’t imagine
where she is.”’

“But listen,” I began out loud, because
I was so exasperated with them, when to my
utter rage Edmund put a big warm hand
over my mouth and kept it there.

“Keep still, I tell you,” he whispered.
“There’s a crack if you want to look, but
for heaven’s sake shut up.”

Well, I tried to look through the crack.
Of course I was simply wild with anger. I
had never been treated like that in my
whole life. It gave me the most confused
feeling. I still felt small and lost and un-
cared for, and yet there was something so
awfully definite about his hand, if you see
what I mean. I know I stared through the
crack for almost a minute before I could see
anything at all. I could feel his sleeve
against my shoulder. Then suddenly be-
yond the crack everything came real.

There was a crowd of men inside, I could
tell that; men moving restlessly and talking
hoarsely, with a kind of excited tension in
their voices. At first all I could see was a
bright patch of light surrounded by shadow,
where small yellowish lights moved in un-
easy circles. Then I saw that the bright
patch was a sort of fenced-in place covered
with sawdust under brilliant dropped elec-
tric lights. The small uneasy lights were
cigar and cigarette ends. Our side of the
building held only a few people and fortu-
nately they didn’t always stand in front of
the cracks. At one side of the sawdust
place I could see a big box with a wire-
netting front. Within that something
moved and I caught a glimpse within of
two, small, round green fires that flared on
and off as the dogs somewhere in the dark
broke into a muffled louder yelling.

I nudged Edmund. “ What’s that, in that
box?”

He leaned his head down to me, never
taking his eyes off the crack. ‘The wild-
cat,” he whispered. “Biggest I ever saw.
It’ll tear those dogs to ribbons before they
kill it. I’ll get this man Jake for this. But
I can’t do a thing until I know where Miss
Agnes is. Here—what’re you shivering for?
They haven’t brought the dogs in yet any-
way.” And still staring into the crack he
absently picked up my hand and put it into
his coat pocket.

Mr. Perkin leaned over and said across
me, “Is there another door?”’

“Two of them,’ Edmund whispered
back. “The one in back connects with the
shed where the dogs are. They’ll bring
them in that way. The other one is just
opposite.”

“T’ll go around and see if she’s there,”
Mr. Perkin said, and I heard him hit his
toe against the wall as he turned the cor-
ner. My hand in Edmund’s pocket, in his
loose casual grasp, was the only comfortable
thing about me.

“What can you do? What can you do?”
I kept wHispering to him.

He only squeezed my hand once, warn-
ingly. “‘Sh-h. That depends. That you,
Perkin?”

“I went all the way around,’ he said.
“She isn’t anywhere that I can see,
What ——”

“L-look,” I whispered, nudging them. I
had caught a glimpse through the crack.
“They’re bringing in the dogs.”

In there, in the smoky shadows, you
could hear the mutter of the crowd grown
hard edged, tight stretched. The frantic
barking of the dogs came to our ears sud-
denly unmuffied; as if a door had been
opened. The flat green eyes of fire in the
cage shifted’and stared. I caught a glimpse
of a huge furry paw with bright claws reach-
ing beyond the wire, and a gleam of white
bared teeth. Men were going by the cracks
now, shutting off our view and we could
hear the leashed dogs pulling and scratching
as they passed. Their barking was deafen-
ing. Then they and the men with them had
passed by, and we could see the sawdust

again, empty and yellow, fenced in with
boards on the other side, over which men’s
heads and shoulders showed plainly. They
were betting and the voices of the men hold-
ing the dogs came to us clearly.

It hit-me suddenly, as if I hadn’t really
thought of it’ before, that those men in
there really meant to let that wildcat at
those dogs, and those dogs at that wildcat.
It made me cold and sick al! over to think
that they would like, actually enjoy, that
cold, laughing deliberate cruelty. The
thought of it swept over me suddenly as the
bigness of the dark had, and for a minute
I thought I should faint with the realiza-
tion that life could be big and bitter and
terrible like that.

I think I shut my eyes and buried my face
in Edmund’s coat sleeve, and I know I was
saying “Oh, don’t let them! Oh, don’t let
them!” over and over again.

But then suddenly, as if both men beside
me had taken quick deep breaths, they
said, “ There she is. She came in behind the
dogs.” Mr. Perkin made a sound that was
like a groan and started for the door. I
opened my eyes and stared through the
crack,

There stood Agnes. She was in there. In
the middle of the sawdust patch, with the
electric lights shining full on that white
loek in her black hair, making inky shadows
of her black eyes. It poured over her white
calm face and over her white shoulders
where her cloak had fallen back. Her black
satin slippers were deep in sawdust. Beyond
her was smoky darkness filled with cigar
lights and men’s angry faces; and in front
of her, still leashed, the dogs raved. I could
see them now, big deep-chested dogs, a
brindle one and a white one with cropped
ears, straining toward her, where she stood
in front of the wildcat’s cage. She stood
there, tall and black and white, and sud-
denly I was so proud of her and glad of her,
standing there like that, that I could have
burst.

You could not hear anything over the
noise of the dogs and the aroused, shouting
voices of the men. I think she said some-
thing to the men who held the dogs, but I
saw one shake his head, surly and watchful,
and let the dogs straining against their
chest straps reach a little nearer toward her
with their scrabbling front paws. Men were
yelling to her to get back, and two elbowed
out of the crowd by the dogs and started
for her. Outside by the door we could hear
Mr. Perkin shouting and struggling with
the door men. Edmund started toward the
door, but I pulled him back. For through
the crack, just as a man came near Agnes,
I saw her move back a step or two, almost
up against the wildcat’s cage. She had
made a slow gesture with one white large
hand and I saw a revolver in it, shining and
steady and purposeful. The crowd quieted
down. The men quieted the dogs. We
heard her voice, cool and confident, with an
accustomed: edge of authority in it, cover
the dogs’ choked whining.

“Take those dogs out of here,’’ she said,
and every syllable was distinct and im-
pressive. “I am a county deputy sheriff and
I order this fight stopped. Start going out
that door at once and don’t stop going. I
want this place empty in five minutes.”

There was a dead quiet. Then a man’s
voice cried suddenly over the heads of the
crowd: “‘Take that gun away from her,
Jake. She’s alone. Don’t let a woman fool
you that way, Jake. Hit her over the ear
and let the dogs in. We've paid our
money.”

“Let the dogsin! Let the dogs in!” the
crowd yelled, growling and muttering and
catcalling, and another burst of barking
from the dogs drowned out Mr. Perkin’s
voice shouting at them from the door. Ed-
mund was with him there now and they had
locked arms and were fighting their way in,
but the crowd did not know that yet. I was
alone-at the crack, sobbing and pounding
the shutters and screaming “Agnes!
Agnes! Agnes!” as if anyone could have
heard me for the riot inside.

They were pressing in across the sawdust

space toward her. A crouching man in a |

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

If
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210 THE

SATURDAY

EVENING POST

October 17,1925

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cap and torn sweater worked nearer her,
his eye on the revolver which covered him.
I had the feeling that if she made any sort
of motion, like hesitancy or fear or even
aggression, he would be able to get the re-
volver away from her. But she stood like a
rock, even her eyes motionlessly fixed on
him, her hand and her braced elbow steady,
her revolver a straight bar of light. Behind
them the crowd shouted with wide-open
mouths that cried indistinguishable words,
and the dogs’ feet sent up the sawdust in
showers.

Then the man in the sweater jerked, as if
to leap at her. The crack of the revolver
was instant, stunning. The smoke swirled
thick about her. The man in the sweater
leaped back, swearing and grabbing at his
foot. She had fired just beyond his toes.
The crowd gave back. Agnes stood still
before the cage, still motionless, and her
eyes were like black light.

“Get back,”’ she cried again. ‘The next
time I shoot, somebody gets hurt. Get back
and get out, now.”

For a moment the men stood, defiant.
But behind them-the crowd was milling
and struggling, crying something to the
ones with the dogs. Shouts and the noises
of a struggle came from where Mr. Perkin
and Edmund were fighting their way in.

“Get out of here, every last one of you,”
Agnes cried again suddenly and raised her
revolver, and at that the pep went out of
the crowd as if she had turned the hose on a
starched dress.

They just melted and faded and strag-
gled away, out through the door, running
across the yard, until behind me the yard
was full of the sound of automobile starters
and the noise of engines roaring and tires
racing down the drive.

They were dragging the dogs away, the
growling, struggling big brutes. Mr. Perkin
strode across the sawdust toward Agnes
and behind him I caught a glimpse of Ed-
mund crashing a fist against a man’s chin.
But the queer thing was the white, still way
Agnes stood against the wildcat’s cage,
looking at Mr. Perkin coming toward her.

I really thought he was going to put his
arms around her then and there ard kiss
her, right under the electric light.

But the queer look in her face stopped
“You're not hurt?” I heard him say.
“Agnes, what is it?”’

“It’s this darned wildcat,”’ she said

| slowly, staring at him as if she wasn’t quite

sure what she was saying, considering the
way he was looking at her. “I backed up
against this cage and he stuck his claws
through the back of my dress. I couldn’t
have moved if I had wanted to.”

But then Mr. Perkin really did put his
arms around her. I stopped looking just
then, for Edmund came out to get me.

“Gosh, what a woman! Magnificent,
isn’t she?” he said to me, leading me back
to the car with a firm hand on my arm. “I

should think you’d be awfully proud of
her.”

“I—I am,” I said unsteadily, standing
by him in the dark. And truly, I was. I
was warm all over with being glad that I
was related to her. But at the same time
I was stabbed with jealousy that he should
admire her so. Because he was wonderful
too. Suddenly I could have cried, to think
how big and wonderful and dear he was.
I could have cried, because I hadn’t done a
single thing that he could admire, not one
thing. It hurt deliciously, feeling so useless
and humbie there beside him. How could
I ever expect to attract a man as wonderful
as he was?

“Are you—are you fond of animals?” I
said to him weakly, because I was really
afraid I would cry.

“T like kittens,”’ he said, staring over at
the lighted doorway, where Agnes and Mr.
Perkin were coming slowly, “and puppies.
Little things. Warm, like your hand.
Where is your hand, by the way?”

I don’t know what he wanted it for. Per-
haps he thought I was still cold. But then
Agnes and Mr. Perkin were almost up to us
in the dark, and she was laughing richly, as
a happy woman will. It almost made me
ery again. But Edmund put my hand back
in his pocket and held it there, so of course
I couldn’t.

“Why, it’s Vivian,” Agnes said sud-
denly. “‘Why, Vivian, you splendid little
sport. How corking of you to come out
here with Dan and Eddie. Child, you must
be frozen.”

All of them were looking at me and Ed-
mund was looking at me as if he hadn’t
really seen me before. I simply couldn’t
stand it, her kindness and their eyes.

“Oh, don’t be nice to me, Agnes, please.”’
I wailed and my teeth chattered. ‘I’ve
been so horrid and snippy to you and you're
so—so wonderful. You mustn’t think I
came out to help you. I came out because
I”"—I had to swallow hard and stare de-
fiantly at Eddie, who was holding my hand
even tighter—‘“‘I was jealous. But now-
oh, Agnes, I’m so proud of you, anyway.”

Suddenly they were all laughing at me
and Agnes was patting my shoulder and

”

Mr. Perkin was patting the other. Agnes
shoved me a little nearer Eddie.
“Take her home, Ed” she said. “I al-

ways thought she’d be a nice child if you
could get her alone. Now that I’ve ac-
complished my fell purpose of coming South
to catch a rich and handsome husband,
you'll have to teach her Latin, Ed. You
know, it begins, ‘Amo, amas, amat.’”

“‘Good—gooedness gracious, Agnes,” I
gasped, but they had already started off
and Eddie was making me put on his coat
in the most thrillingly masterful manner.
And then I forgot Agnes, too, because I had
to start in right then planning how I could
possibly make him admire me as much as he
did her.

DRAWN BY NATE COLLIER

Prospective Fathercin:Law: “‘Can You Support My Daughter in the Style to

Which She is Accustemed?"’
“Te be Frank; No.""

“Shake! Neither Can 11"

—

—

See these germs?

Look harmless, don’t
they? Yet they easily
eat through hard enamel,
a material that blunts
the edge of tempered
steel. These germs, small
as they look here, are
magnified hundreds of
times. They are soft, yet
they eat through the en-
amel of your teeth as
easily as the dentist’s
powerful drill.

Decay

How germs pierce the hardest substance in

explained

By Ira Davis Joel, B. S., M. S.

RY this germ-killing dental cream at
our expense. But first read why it is
necessary for teeth that germs be killed.

Germs are the cause of tooth decay. Two
University of Michigan scientists exam-
ined a great many decayed teeth. In nine
out of ten they found a certain germ.
They turned this germ loose on sound
teeth and in a short time it ate through the
enamel. Kill this germ, they claim, and
you immediately check decay. They made
experiments. When teeth were treated
with dentifrices that did not kill germs,
the teeth decayed; but when the germs
were killed, there was no decay.

Many eminent scientists attest the ger-
micidal power of Kolynos Dental Cream.
They find that it kills, in the mouth, 80 to
90 per cent of the mouth bacteria. And

after using Kolynos, hours pass before -

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

Snug harbors for decay germs

It is much easier for your tooth brush to clean the more
exposed surfaces of your teeth. It is in the crevices that
the germs get in their fine work. Kolynos used in the
mouth becomes a ~— which flows into the crevices and

kills the germs whic

would otherwise start decay.

“

If this advertisement interests you;
if you believe what it ‘says; if you
are anxious to keep your teeth and

ums sound—the first step to take
is to fill in the coupon below and
send for a generous sample of
Kolynos Dental Cream, enough to
brush your teeth 22 times, ¥% inch
to the brushing.

See for yourself the result of kill-
ing germs. You will say to yourself,
just as thousands of others have,
‘“ . | mo

How clean my mouth feels!” So
send for the free sample—or, what
will be quicker, buy a tube at your
druggist’s.

your body as surely as the dentist’s drill

there are again enough germs to damage
your teeth.

Did you ever watch snowflakes collect
upon a window-pane? That is the way
germs collect upon your teeth. The first
few find it hard to cling, but soon they
build up rapidly. First Bacilli Acidophili
lodge on the enamel. They are tiny, short
threads of germs. In your saliva is a sticky
substance called mucin. Little flakes of
this adhere to the teeth. Thusa

the film. It washes away the film, with
its multitude of germs. It leaves compara-
tively few germs in your mouth.

Doctors and dentists say that 85 to 90%
of the health-destroying germs enter the
body through the mouth. Kolynos helps
to keep your mouth free from germs and
automatically insures better health.

Kolynos comes in liquid form, also. Use it as a
dargle and spray. It leaves the mouth and throat
wonderfully clean and refreshed.

close, sticky, weblike film spreads
across the enamel, a film of malig-
nant germs that cause decay.

These germs multiply with
amazing rapidity. Each produces
tiny quantities of harmful acid.
The film holds this acid against
the teeth while it gradually eats
into the enamel.

Name

Street

Kolynos checks this. To begin City.....

with, it ki//s germs. It breaks up

KOLY NOS

The Kolynos Company, Dept. 1-AAI
New Haven, Conn.
Send sample to:

mari’ FREE

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

He cr luncheons

were greatly enjoyed

because they were always

A bit out of
Ordinary

Arrernocn luncheons can be unusual with-
out being difficult to prepare. They can be
highly enjoyable without being elaborate.
With Manning-Bowman electric table ap-
pointments so many things suggest them-
selves. Things which can be prepared with
a minimum of time and effort —and, too, with
those distinctive little touches which so
frequently evoke the pride of the hostess and
the admiration of her guests.

Waffles. A suggestion for tomorrow's
luncheon! Make them with a Manning-
Bowman electric waffle iron, right at the
table while your guests are seated and con-
versation flows uninterruptedly. No incon-
venience. A minute or two and you have
a serving of waffles for four. Before one
serving is eaten another is ready. And such
waffles as these are sure to be! Piping hot,
golden brown, thick and tender. And with

the

most waffle irons; while a self-adjusting hinge
lets the top rise with the batter. This top,
too, is heated, and the result is a plump,
light waffle evenly done on both sides. Then
there’s the grooved edge to catch stray
drips of batter. The tray to protect table or
cloth. The top arranged to prevent tipping
over. The switch in plug for conveniently
turning current on or off. Construction and

your Manning-Bowman
electric percolator also
right at hand and just as
ready to make the coffee
—amber-rich and delicious

—the occasion is certain

finish that make it easy to keep the iron
clean and attractive.

The same thoughtful consideration of
details has attended the designing of
Manning-Bowman percolators. In fact it
has characterized all Manning-Bowman

to be a complete success.

The ManningBowman pe! Ne; &

waffle iron is deeper than Prices

Manning Bowman electric heating
{ Needed in every
puschoid. Simple, comfortable, eco
nomical, Heat degrees adjustable

products for more than seventy years. It
shows that Manning-Bowman household
appliances are designed, first of all, from

the viewpoint of the woman

Carafes.
in the stores.

Quality Ware

Household and Table

amn i ng —- Appointments, in nickel
and silver plate. Hotakold
OwmMan Vacuum Bottles, Jugs,

You'll see them

anning-
Oowlman.
Electric - Appliances

October 17,1925

The compact and graceful Manning-Bowman electri
waffle iron shown in the picture is No. 1606. Price $15.0
The urn percolator set, comprising percolator, sugar, cream

4 .
and tray, is one of the most recently designed by Manning
Bowman. Note its classic grace. No. 361930. Price
$44.00

who uses them. Yet, besides utility, they
have a grace of line and beauty of finish to
match the appeal of the finest silverware.

In addition to waffle irons and percolators,
Manning-Bowman household appliances in-
clude table stoves, toasters, laundry irons
and heating pads. All are made in a pleasing
variety of styles. They are obtainable at
stores selling electric appliances of the better
kind, and are everywhere identified with this
significant and easily remembered phrase—
‘*M-B means best.”

“Alluring Luncheons.” We'd like every
home-maker —especially the woman who en-
tertains—to have a copy of this interesting
little suggestion booklet we've prepared.
“Bright Breakfasts” is another. Write to us

for either or both. Manning, @yayreTES
Bowman €?Co., Meriden,Conn.

this Mann-

The convenient reversible doors make

ing-Bowman electric toaster extremely handy, quick

and efficient. Handsomely designed. No. 1225.
Price $8.00.

not a protectorate—goes along with it,
and likewise her protectorate in Tunis,
where she is already having considerable
difficulty to keep the tricolor flying. The
French colonial empire of North Africa is
one of the greatest projects of modern
times. Vast, with tremendous potentiali-
ties, with still a trackless waste of fertile
soil that only needs attention to make it one
of the great gardens of the world, it is well
worth fighting for, and the French must

_ fight for it to the bitter end.

Can France afford to keep her present
forces in Morocco throughout the winter
sitting tight on advanced lines? Unfortu-
nately the rains begin about the same time
that a socialistically inclined parliament re-
convenes in Paris. It is a parliament that
persisted in regarding the war as a little
affair in the colonies until the same thing
that happened to the armies of Spain al-
most happened to the French. It was a
long, thin, worn and battered line that Gen-
eral De Chambrun commanded, when
France began thinking in divisions.instead
of battalions.

General De Chambrun, born in Wash-
ington, District of Columbia, direct de-
scendant of Lafayette, which makes him a
citizen of the United States as well as of
France, brother-in-law of Nicholas Long-
worth, Speaker of our House of Repre-
sentatives, resides at Fez, in a splendid
Moorish palace that once belonged toa caid.
After Marshal Lyautey, the Governor Gen-
eval, he was the Grand Seigneur of Mo-
rocco, until the night of April seventeenth,
of this year, when the Riffian hordes first at-
tacked the French posts. Then the gay
parties faded from the beautiful patios,
arbored with grapes and tinkling with
many fountains. Overnight, De Chambrun
became the hardest working general of the
French army. The forces under his command
comprised but 12,000 men. He bombarded
the War Office at Paris with insistent de-
mands that help be sent and quickly. But
post after post in the French zone fell into
Riff hands. The railway line between Fez
and Taza, the only gateway into Algeria,
was cut. De Chambrun hurled in the For-
eign Legion, that had already received an
army citation for heroic resistance, and the
Taza line was free. Then Fez was threat-
ened, a sacred city of Islam. Had it fallen,
it is probable that all the great caids to the
south would have joined forces with the
Riff, whose advance guards were only five
miles from the city. But De Chambrun’s
line miraculously held. Now the French
Government thinks in units even greater
than divisions. It is operating in Morocco
with a full army corps.

The American Archangels

The beau geste of certain Americans aided
the French Government considerably in
their work of stirring up popular enthusi-
asm at home. Headed by Colonel Charles
Sweeney, redoubtable soldier of fortune,
and veteran of many wars, a dozen Amer-
ican aviators offered their services to
France. The Quai d'Orsay mulled over
the matter for a long time before the light
broke upon them. France could not accept
the offer, officially, for fear of what Wash-
ington might think, and say. But under
the auspices of France, the Americans
might be accepted to serve the most ex-
alted servant of Allah, His Majesty,
Mulai Yusef, Sultan of Morocco, whom
the French are nominally defending in
the war against the Riff. Morocco was
not a real state, only a protectorate.
Washington would probably ignore the
matter. Washington would, perhaps, not
even take the trouble to wash its hands of
its gallant sons, or take any notice of them
whatsoever. So the cymbals were beaten
and the drums and tom-toms sounded.
The French press, in big, front-page stories,
illustrated with manly photographs, an-
nounced to the French public, one and all,

THE FIRES OF ISLAM

(Continued from Page 15)

THE SATURDAY

that American archangels had offered to
aid France in the new fight for civilization.
There were luncheons, dinners, official
banquets, a presentation at the Elysée to
the president of the Republic, a reception
tendered by the prime minister, with all the
reporters present. As guests of French
aviation, and piloted by aces of the World
War for whom as yet there was no pressing
necessity in Morocco, the Americans were
then given wonderful and colorful days in
Spain, more days and nights of receptions
and speeches when the Spanish tom-toms
sounded, and the press announced the
glorious news that after nearly three
decades, American and Spaniard would
fight side by side. Then, at Rabat, the
political capital of Morocco, the Americans
were formally received by Mulai Yusef,
with all the pomp and glory of Africa.

They marched to the palace through solid |

lines of the famous Black Guard of the
Sultan, mounted on veritable Arab charg-
ers, gorgeous in flowing cloaks of green,
scarlet and gold. Bands played in the
outer and inner compounds. Marshal
Lyautey in person performed the introduc-
tion. The Sultan then announced, however,
that his budget, unless he could make an
additional touch on France, would not
permit the Americans to draw pay until
April of next year. Since then they have
been permitted to work. As an after-
thought, the initials U. S. which had been
ordered for their uniforms were replaced by
the star of the Sultan’s Sherifian Empire.

One American has already landed in a base |

hospital. Others may be killed.

Blockhouse Warfare

The French war against the Riff, natu-

rally, has been vastly different from the

Spanish brand. The French study every
military question scientifically and they
fight carefully, quite aside from the fact
that they have the finest army in the world
today. But this is a war that has taken
them back decades before the World War.
This is again the war of the open move-
ment, of cavalry, and with a line of block-
houses rather than trenches as the marked
front. None of the discoveries of the
World War are of much use, and nothing
has been shown that will probably ever be
employed as new in any future war be-
tween up-to-date powers. A trench front
in the Riff country would occupy all the
forces of France, and besides the Riff will
not fight in such fashion; so trenches are
useless except to surround the forts and
blockhouses. The Riff uses trenches for his
own posts, and his trenches are, in fact, the
only improvement upon any device em-
ployed in the World War. The story has
gone abroad that the Riff army is being
guided by Berlin, as well as financed by
Russia. This is but another cock-and-bull
story, part of the usual propaganda cam-
paign. The French officers in Morocco are
the first to scoff at it. They only wish the
Riffians were officered by Germans. They
have fought the Germans, and know the
Germans’ methods thoroughly. The Riff
methods of warfare are so old t’ it to this
modern army they are entirely new. Asa
matter of fact, the only Germans with the
Riff are a few score deserters from the
Spanish Foreign Legion. These men were
at once used at one of the best tasks the
German soldier knows how to perform—
namely, trench making. But the trenches,
made by the Riff themselves, that have
been taken by the French, show an advance
over anything ever found on the German
lines in France. The salient difference be-
tween the Riff and German trenches is that
the former nearly all have overhead cover-
ing that makes them completely invisible
from the air. They are usually built against
hillsides, scooped out from the front,
leaving a natural roof of rock or dirt, then
built up again in front, the men inside
firing through loopholes.

EVENING POST

ORW E- MEANWELLSS
INTERCOLLEGIATE”
(1925 Mook )

SABTIAL DESIGN

PERFECT Fi T TING LAST AND CU

HEAVY DUCK UPPER
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A Suction

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Crepe Sole

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SERVUS

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THE SATURDAY

214

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EVENING POST

The Riff has also improved upon the
barbed-wire entanglements of the World
War. The barriers in the immediate no-
man’s land before his trenches are rows
of cactus plants, that make his operations
quite invisible, and are extremely hard to
cut through. The Riff soldier, in fact, is a
marvel to the European for his ability to
take cover. His mountain ranges aid him,
naturally, but even in the plain he is as
elusive as a phantom and disappears as
quickly as a rabbit into his hole. A most
embarrassing feature of the entire opera-
tion in the Ouergha valley, where most of
the recent fighting has taken place, is that
the Riffians have seldom been seen at all,
and then only on horseback at great dis-
tances, ready to move quickly out of range
before a mountain battery can get into
action. The entire country is covered with
dwarf palm that gives it, under the burning
African sun, the appearance of a giant
leopard skin. At a hundred yards a man
sitting in this scrub is invisible. The effect
of gas shells in such difficult country is
admittedly problematical; but, anyway,
the French have not used them. The Riff
have no gas, so there are no gas masks in
Morocco to add to campaign impedimenta
already almost unbearable in such terrific
heat. The French maintain that they have
not used gas because they are a civilized
nation, belonging to the League of Nations,
and have signed the
covenant forbidding this

October 17,1925

They had no wheels, alas, and had ma-
rines landed they would probably be re-
posing now in the rocky ravines behind
Tangier. America paid the $50,000 de-
manded as ransom.

Worrying Not at All

The situation of the Spanish army would
be about the same, even should they take
Ajdir and destroy it. They might land on
the beach without a shot fired. Abd-el-
Krim might even signai down to ask “‘ Boys,
are you all here?’’ Then he and brother Si,
safely installed in another native village of
straw-covered mud huts, but with thesame .
underground telephone posts as at Ajdir,
would signal for the-Riffian festivities to
begin. At Melilla, farther along the coast,
the Spaniards lost 10,000 dead. At Al-
hucemas they would lose many more. Al-
hucemas might become known as the
Gallipoli of the African war. The thousands
of Riff riflemen in the surrounding hills are
the finest marksmen in the whole world.
They shoot only to kill and aim at the
whites of the eyes. It is believed that the
wiser military minds:on the French side
will not permit such a tragedy to occur.

French airmen bomb Ajdir occasionally,
which worries Abd-el-Krim and brother Si
not at all. One mud hut is as good as an-
other. There are plenty of mud huts.

method of war. But it is
also a fact that the use of
such a devil’s invention
would certainly have had
a bad effect upon many
fanatical caids, especially
those in the Taza sector,
already influenced suffi-
ciently by the successes
of Abd-el-Krim.

Abd-el-Krim’'s Home

Abd-el-Krim and his
brother, Si Mohammed,
live in native, straw-
covered, mud huts in the
village of Ajdir, the Riff
capital, which is situated
almost on the Mediter-
ranean coast, directly op-
posite the island in the
bay of Alhucemas, which
is one of the few remain-
ing Spanish strongholds.
It has been suggested
that one reason why this
island has not been at-
tacked by the Riff is be-
cause it is a base for
food supplies which the
Spaniards are permitted
to send to their country-
men still held as hos-
tages by the enemy.

On fine days when the
weather is cool, Abd-el-
Krim and brother Si
pitch a tent on the beach just across from
the island, from which they may hurl Arab
curses at the enemy, and invite him over.
Now that Spain has agreed to act with
France there has been much big talk in
the press that a large Spanish landing—
50,000 men is the figure mentioned—will
be attempted at Alhucemas Bay.

But Abd-el-Krim has shown no disposi-
tien to change his capital and move away
from that vicinity because of these reports.
Abd-el-Krim has undoubtedly heard the
story of how the bandit, Raisuli, when he
held prisoner the Greek-American, Perdi-
caris, viewed the declaration of the late ex-
President of the United States that he would
have “ Perdicaris alive or Raisuli dead.” On
that occasion American battleships entered
Tangier harbor, then not an international,
but a purely Moroccan port. The vessels
looked formidable and threatening. Raisuli
watched with interest from a near-by
hilltop.

“But have they wheels that they can
come up here?” he asked.

Boats for Morecce are Loaded With War Materials

Very little grows in the Riff, so the army,
even on a peace basis, has frugal fare. The
farmers raise some wheat, barley and maize,
but very little suffices. There are mountain
goats, a few herds of cattle, and vegetables
are planted where the soil permits. The
present year has seen the best crop that the
Riff have produced in several seasons, de-
spite the war taking the entire time of every
able-bodied man. This, coupled with the
fact that Abd-el-Krim still has enormous
stores and much money taken from the
Spaniards, sharpens the suspicion that any
truce now concluded would not be heart-
felt, but really only temporary, giving time
for the Riff missionaries to circulate through
all Morocco. A Riffian looks and dresses
exactly the same as any other native. One
cannot tell the difference, whether he wan-
der in the public places of Fez or Ajdir.

The Riff army also is troubled neither by
a complicated service of supplies nor hospi-
tal corps. Each soldier carries his own food
necessary for along march, and whatever

(Continued on Page 217)

A

You can have absolute con-
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f ton. It is an emblem of hon-
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| guarantee of the highest stand-
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perfect satisfaction in any deal-
ings with our representatives

wi. A
Foes ee

_—
———

—

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

| New Standard of lity.
cA Value aan ee ‘|

~~ welcomed by q million cAmerican women

IGHER quality and greater value! Absolute fresh-
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In the Zanol laboratories, domestic
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Welcome this representative who is
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PRODUCTS CoO.
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An Opportunity To Make
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Zanol Representatives make very desirabie
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%
' THE AMERICAN PRODUCTS CO., !

1 Dept. 808, Cincinnati, Ohio.

Please send me details of your proposition
by which I can make a very substantial in
come and have a permanent business of my
own

Name

Address. .

potter ------

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST October 17,1925

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The Brandes Cone—a truly decorative bit of furniture that
conceals a remarkable speaker. “Se ae sek Gey Oe

UST listen! Very low tones—the kind

The Type H—a simple horn of graceful

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Great in volume—true in tone. a .
_—

able by the turn of a thumbscrew. $18 they are—true and clear. A high so-

prano that used to be a bit thin in the
upper register. Here it is, perfectly rounded
—and real!

And this rare tone quality is character-
istic of all Brandes products. The new

O =
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—in its trim mahogany shell. The Horn—

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yt the Phonograph Attachment—which gives

( true Brandes tone through any good phono-
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\
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° The Adjustable Table-Talher. Gooseneck reached a perfection of clarity, and a rich-
horn for clearer, rounded tone. Finished

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10

A most satisfactory buyfor. . . $

search of many busy years. Now—acous-
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Brandes Products Corporation
TheP ph Attachment — ms 4 q 7 q 3
on aan ast Ke 200 Mt. Pleasant Ave. Newark, N. J
unit as H =. justable and t fur.

nished a connection to =e all ee"
graphs. - ¢ y
5 © Copyrighted by
| Brandes Products Corp. 1925

Brande

EXPERTS IN RADIO ACOUSTICS

A”

>

—

~~

(Continued from Page 214)
he personally considers necessary in case
he is wounded. No military tailor meas-
ures and cuts his uniform. The ordinary
Arab peasant dress and the enveloping
burnous shield him from the sun by day
and warm him against the mountain winds
at night. War here, even modern war, has
become again a simple operation. Abd-el-
Krim has an airplane, captured from the
Spaniards, but has not troubled to try it
out. The captured cannon have been a
trifle beyond him, but the machine guns
taken from the enemy he has used with
withering effect. The entire population of
the Riff is about half a million. The French
estimate the strength of the Riff army at
about 50,000 rifles. Abd-el-Krim states
that never at a single point has he mobilized
more than 20,000 men.

The Reason of the War

Abd-el-Krim is not a bona fide Sherif,
or descendant of the Prophet Mohammed.
He is a self-appointed leader. He was not
even the legitimate Caid of the Riff, but a
usurper who proved stronger than his pred-
ecessor. It is unknown whether he has ever
been in Europe, but he did receive an excel-
lent Arabic education at the University of
Fez, and a working knowledge of Spanish at
Melilla, where he worked in a minor capac-
ity, some years ago, in the government
offices. A fall from a horse when a boy gave
him a permanent limp, and incapacitated
him for active road work, so he leaves the
soldiering to his brother. He secludes him-
self even from his own people, preferring
to assume the oracular réle, appearing at
dramatic moments, speaking few words,
and granting short audiences even to his
emissaries. He writes voluminous letters
in beautiful Arabic script, many of which
are sent outside the Riff to certain persons
through whom he keeps careful tab on the
mentality of Europe. He is but forty-two
years old, is short and somewhat dumpy in
stature, and wears a scraggy, semicircular
black beard, after the rube style of the
vaudeville stage. Also a long, drooping
mustache, concealing a cynical smile. His
brother, Si Mohammed, attended the Span-
ish engineering school at Madrid, and has
otherwise traveled abroad in European at-
tire, which has never been worn by Abd-el-
Krim. Si Mohammed is several years
younger than Abd-el-Krim, is a handsome
type of Berber native and far the more
commanding figure.

What is the rea] reason of the war? Is it
the Holy War, as whispered, or is it a na-
tional war, inspired by the fourteen points
of Woodrow Wilson? Is it a war of race,
the white against brown, to determine
which form of civilization shall endure, or is
it a war begun merely for the sake of war
and the love of it, as might be the case,
judging from the way these mountain tribes
battle with each other when they have no
greater adversary?

It is indeed a strange mix-up of the serv-
ants of God and Allah. The Riff chieftain
inflames the tribes to overthrow “the dogs
of unbelievers.”” The French communiques
speak solemnly about Christianity, mean-
while using native troops, humble servants
of Allah, in every action.

Yet the native troops seem completely
loyal. There has never been a sign of un-
rest in their ranks. The American flyers,
working only for France, are in the official
pay of the Sultan. The great caids of the
High Atlas mountains who have never
been subdued by the French—they have, in
fact, carefully refrained from the task—
do not yet answer the call of Abd-el-Krim
to bring their hordes of wild tribesmen to
his aid, thus so hemming in the French
army that its position would scarcely be
tenable anywhere in Morocco.

The French maintain that it is not a
Holy War.

A story told in Fez is that it actually
began for the comparatively banal reason
that Abd-el-Krim, when working in Melilla,
aspired to the affections of the same lady
that had captured the fancy of General

son. The general ordered the native to de-
sist in his suit, finishing a long tirade by
slapping Abd-el-Krim on the face. The
Riffian resigned his position, but promised
to return. He went back to the Riff to be-
gin plans for a revenge that later was com-
plete. The cadre of his first Riff army was

Sylvestre, commanding the Spanish garri- |

THE SATURDAY EVENING

but twelve hundred rifles. With these |

warriors he secured the submission not
only of his own, but of neighboring tribes.
His first serious battle with the Spaniards
was at Melilla, where General Sylvestre,
after his crushing defeat, committed suicide
rather than return, disgraced, to Spain. But
aside from the number given of the original
Riff army, and the suicide of Sylvestre, this
is only a story.

Abd-el-Krim now opposes Mulai Yusef,
in the rdle of self-anointed caliph of Islam.
He declares that the Sultan is a fat cow—
he certainly is fat—and a mere tool in the
hands of the French.

Although his proclamations read that the |

French are a species of “dogs,”
quarrel would apparently be with the
Sultan, with the French as incidental.

his first |

But |

on this point the French do not delude

themselves.

A Nightmare of the Future

War, apparently, has been instilled into
the Moslem soul.
battle, goes straight to the happy hunting

The warrior, slain in |

ground. There are no white-robed angels |
playing on golden harps in the Moslem |

heaven, but perfumed gardens, houris,

eternally beautiful, the pomegranate and |

the plentiful vine.

The Holy War, in the sense that is most

feared, is a nightmare of the future; never- |

theless, the Moslem religion is spreading
rapidly, and with it comes the specter of
the brown rather than the white man
eventually in control. Islam now embraces
practically all of North Africa. It has mil-
lions of supporters in India and even in
China and the French colonies of Indo-
China. All Islam watches the fighting in
this northwest corner of Africa with tense
interest. The French have a saying that in
the desert news travels faster than the
telephone. It is uncanny how the procla-
mations of Abd-el-Krim and the results of
his operations are known to far-off tribes
just as quickly as they appear in the
Morocco press. Therefore, the fires of Islam,
first really lighted by Mustapha Kemal
Pasha, rekindled by Abd-el-Krim, now
threaten to break out elsewhere like new
volcanoes.

The civilization of the Arab is just as
satisfactory to himself as that of Europe
to the European. At present, perhaps,
Islam does not watch with such fanatical
eyes as alarmists would have the Christian
world believe, but under such blows as
Mustapha Kemal Pasha and Abd-el-Krim
have dealt, the prestige of the white man
declines.

And so, down in Fez, where the General
Staff of the French army in Morocco has its
headquarters, there is more than the actual
day-by-day war, even with its present
successes, more than the terrific African
heat—the thermometer is often 130 degrees
in the shade—to cause profound reflection.
The unknown is often terrifying. The un-
known always causes uneasiness and rest-
lessness at night. The gardens of the Hotel
Bellevue are brilliantly lighted and gay
with the white-and-gold uniforms of officers.
The orchestra plays -the latest jazz, al-
though there are few women to participate
in the occasional dance.

But there is another Fez, quite apart
and unknown to the 4000 population that,
including the military, make up the Euro-
pean quarter. There is the Fez of Islam,
sacred and holy city of Morocco, with its
teeming thousands, a city of learning, with
marvelous schools where Europe came
more than a thousand years ago, a city
that today crouches behind its great
crenelated walls, and smiles, and plots—
perhaps with stiletto already drawn—
awaiting Allah’s will.

fonz:

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if Smart Style, Long Wear, Low Price
ala Eitone: desirable quality you want in a shoe—smart style,

long wearing quality, easy fitting comfort—will be found
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lar home where they will f Sod set vad
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feeding It contains ei ¥ the
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Start your on SPRATT’S today, Your grocer or
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SPRATT’S PATENT LIMITED, Newark, N._J.
San Francisco St. Louis ;

[DOG CAKES AND PUPPY BISCUITS |

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Eastem Office:
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Southern Office:

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THE SATURDAY

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N. Y. Office: Sasoclinn Se Tower

Expert Of: Ad. Auriema, Inc.,
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EVENING POST

TAX REDUCTION AND

October 17,1925

THE PUBLIC DEBT

(Continued from Page 33)

$5,000,000,000 of reduction, in all prob-
ability will not recur as factors in the
future. The likelihood of further surplus
will have been removed, or the surplus so
greatly diminished, by the forthcoming
reduction in taxes, as to be an unimportant
factor in future retirements. The general
fund or working balance of the Treasury has
decreased gradually as the expendi-
tures of the Government have been reduced.
It has, therefore, reached a point of stabili-
zation, and little, if any, support for debt
retirement can be anticipated from it. The
miscellaneous sources may be relied upon to
some extent, but they are more or less in-
significant compared with the huge total
involved. The two main reliances in future
debt decreases will be our sinking fund and
the payments which may be made by foreign
governments on their indebtednesses.

Our present sinking fund covers only a
portion of the public debt. It was made
operative commencing with the fiscal year
1921, and was based upon the retirement
of approximately $10,000,000,000 of debt
over a period of twenty-five years, which
will culminate about 1946. The amount
of this sinking fund was arrived at by de-
ducting from the total amount of Liberty
and Victory Bonds outstanding in 1920,
the sum which represented the cash ad-
vances to foreign governments allied with
us during the war. Those advances ap-
proximated $10,000,000,000. It was evi-
dently contemplated that by establishing
a sinking fund for the $10,000,000,000
which represented our expenditures, we
would, through the payments by our foreign
debtors, have another sinking fund to cover
the extinguishment of the $10,000,000,000
which was loaned them.

The unusual situation during the past
six years in having approximately $2,750,-
000,000 available for debt retirement from
the surpluses and reduction of the working
balance has put us along much more rapidly
in the matter of disposal of the debt than
was looked for. On the other hand the
availability, for curtailment purposes, of
only $621,000,009 from payments by for-
eign debtors has not advanced us as much
from that direction as it was proper to hope.

The loans which we made abroad, aug-
mented by unpaid interest accumulations
and by sales of surplus war supplies, and so
on, have brought the total due to some-
thing more than $12,000,000,000.

Foreign Debts Already Funded

A representative figure of our public debt
at its peak was roughly $25,500,000,000, as
of June 30, 1919. Our own sinking fund is
designed to take care of approximately $10,-
000,000,006 of that by 1946. We have,
however, gone beyond that rate of disposal
by slightly over $3,500,000,000 through the
use of Treasury surpluses, reduction in the
working balance, foreign payments and
minor items. We, therefore, have provided
for the retirement of $13,500,000,000, leav-
ing $12,000,000,000, which is the approxi-
mate amount that is due us from foreign
governments. To state the situation in
another way, our public debt on June 30,
1925, was $20,500,000,000, of which $8,500,-
000,000 will be covered by our own sinking
fund by 1946, and the other $12,000,000,-
000 could be offset by the amount now
owed us from Europe.

Five nations have completely arranged
the funding of their debts to us—Great
Britain, Poland, Finland, Hungary and
Lithuania. The arrangement with Bel-
gium has still to be ratified. The total
amount involved in these five fundings is
approximately $4,750,000,000. The re-
mainder of the $12,000,000,000 owed and
unfunded is approximately $7,250,000,000.

It may be fairly assumed that the agree-
ments which may be negotiated with those
governments which have not funded their

debts will not be upon any less favorable
terms than those which have been agreed
upon in the British and other settlements.
The payments in these cases are generally
extended over a period of sixty-two years.
The amounts of principal payments are
graduated in annual sums, commencing
with the smallest payment in the first year
of the payment period and increasing stead-
ily each year until the last, when the largest
payment of principal will be due. The re-
verse is true in the case of interest. The
largest interest payment comes in the first
year, and those payments will decline as
the principal is decreased so that the small-
est interest installment will probably come
with the last payment of principal. The
interest rate for the first ten years of the
agreements is 3 per cent, and thereafter the
rate is 314 per cent. In the case of Great
Britain, which has the largest funded debt,
the first payment of principal was due in
December, 1923, in the sum of $23,000,000,
and the interest payment for the year was
approximately $135,000,000. The last pay-
ment by Great Britain, unless she chooses
to pay off at a more rapid rate, would come
in 1984, in the sum of $175,000,000, and the
final interest payment would be about
$6,000,000.

The Use of Principal Payments

An application of the principles of the
British settlement to the whole of the $12,-
00,000,000 of foreign debts would in effect
mean an approximate initial interest pay-
ment of $360,000,000 and a total initial
payment of principal of $65,000,000. The
principal payments would increase during
the life of the agreements and the interest
payments decrease. When the end of the
sixty-two year period should arrive, the
final payment of principal would be in the
neighborhood of $465,000,000 and the final
interest payment about $15,000,000.

It has been suggested in some quarters
that the sums which are to be paid us by
foreign governments, either as principal or
interest, instead of being devoted to the
retirement of our own debt, should be
turned into the general cash of the Treasury
and used to effect a greater reduction in
taxation. Such a use of payments of prin-
cipal is unthinkable. They should, without
variation, be used to retire our outstanding
debt. If they should not be used toward
retirement of the debt and should be de-
voted to reducing taxes, we should be in the
situation of the man who borrowed money
to make a loan to a neighbor. When the
neighbor repaid the amount, the lender, in-
stead of using the money to pay off the
note he had given, would divert the pro-
ceeds to paying the ordinary running ex-
penses of his family. He would still have his
note to pay, with no offset in sight. He
might survive such a financial transaction
for a time, but ultimately it would induce
extravagance, impair his credit and bring
disaster. The United States cannot afford
to embark upon such an unsound and risky
policy. The payments of principal as re-
ceived should be devoted religiously to the
redemption of those bonds which were issued
in order to raise the very money that is
represented by the payments. The pay-
ments of principal in the early years of the
funding periods no doubt would be too
small to be much of a factor in connection
with a reduction in taxes.

The question of whether we should use
interest payments from our foreign debtors
to effect a reduction in the public debt, or
devote them to general running expenses of
the Government and thereby effect a de-
crease in taxation, presents a different pro-

What would our public debt situation be,
assuming that the entire $12,000,000,000
due from foreign sources should be funded

(Continued on Page 221)

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

To the Automotive Trade

of America

AST increasing hazards of motoring place a responsibility on you of extending the use of nec-
essary safety devices. For you are in the business of selling protection for automobiles as well
as the accessories of convenience and comfort. Protection means protective devices—tire chains,
bumpers, spotlights, rear view mirrors, windshield cleaners, headlights. Each of these promotes
the motorist’s safety. The need for them is greater today than at any other time in twenty years.

Eighteen million cars on the road have
multiplied traffic dangers. It has be-
come imperative that motorists equip
their cars with every effective safety
device which helps prevent accident
and loss of life. It is up to you, there-
fore, to remind your motorist custom-
ers of the risk they run due to lack of
protection and to suggest the purchase
of safety devices, particularly the great-
est safety device of all—tire chains.

The Dreadnaught
Cabi

inet

The biggest season for tire chains is almost here. If
ever you had a full stock of chains you should have
it now. Furthermore, you should display chains in
your windows and let every possible user know you
have them.

We have made it easy to buy—and to sell Dread-
naught Tire Chains. The handsome Dreadnaught
steel cabinet puts them on display in your store

neatly boxed and labeled.

In this cabinet, the various sizes and types of
Dreadnaught Chains are visible in colorful, clearly-
labeled cartons in which the motorist can carry
away his chains. Repair cross links are shown in a
bin at the top so the buyer can
select any size or type of cross
chain he wants. The use of this
cabinet is free to you.

The attractive carton for each
setof Dreadnaught Chainsismade The Attractive Carton

of strong, waterproof fibreboard,
which protects the chains from
dirt and weather until used. Cus-
tomers much prefer these clean
cartons to bags. They also are
easier to store and easier for the Tie Bive Boy Fastener
buyer to identify.

Tire chains have been considered hard to put on
and take off. The Blue Boy Fastener on Dreadnaught
Chains eliminates this objection. An examination of
this Fastener shows motorists that with one motion
it catches the hook, draws up the slack, and snaps
the link.

With this Fastener it’s easy to put on and take
off Dreadnaught Chains—without breaking finger-
nails. The Blue Boy Fastener locks the chains so
securely to the wheel they can’t drop off.

Dreadnaught display cabinets are now moving
out fast, demonstrating clearly that merchants who
want business are getting ready for the tire chain
season. Will you be ready? Will you have a cabi-
net which both stocks and displays chains? Ask your
Jobber about our proposition, or write us direct.

Dreadnaught Chains are made for all sizes and
types of Balloon, Cord and Truck tires ~Balloon
chains for Balloons, and the famous Dreadnaught
Double Duty Chains (Three Cross Chains Always on
the Ground) for Cords.

THE COLUMBUS McKINNON CHAIN CQ.
COLUMBUS, OHIO, U.S. A.
In Canada: McKINNON COLUMBUS CHAIN, Led., St. Catharines, Ont.

C=

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Dreadnaught Double Duty Tire Chains
Always On

—_ oa)

The Ground

™, is

DREADNAUGHTS FOR CORD, BALLOON AND TRUCK TIRES

220 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

Coal, Gas, or Oil?

Does choosing the fuel really

end your home heating problem?

October 17,1925

Any fuel can be burned wastefully or efficiently.
The determining factor in solving your heating
problem is neither fuel nor type of heating plant—
for no home heating system is efficient without correct

Automatic Heat Regulation.

HE hand-regulated coal heating

plant became obsolete years ago.

Hundreds of thousands of
families, in all parts of America, have
learned, through the installation of
Minneapolis Heat Regulators, that
automatic regulation makes a coal-
fired plant many times more efficient.
More comfortable, healthful heating,
infinitely greater convenience and
safety, and withal, at least 20 per
cent actual fuel saving follow the in-
staliation of the Minneapolis.

If You Burn Oil or Gas—

More necessary still is the Minneapo-
lis type of automatic regulation on
gas-fired boilers and oil burners—for
no type of heating plant is more in
need of exact regulation than these
systems that provide quick, intense heat.

But now it becomes increasingly im-
portant for you to understand the
Minneapolis Heat Regulator; and to
know the vital differences between the
Minneapolis and other types of control.

For there is a growing tendency to sell
the heating plant completely equip-
ped with automatic control. So these
points should be carefully watched:

Accuracy Essential

1. Economy demands that you get a regu-
later that will automatically keep your
house temperature within one degree o
the mark you set it for.

MINNEAPOLIS HEAT REGULATOR CO.
Established 1885
2803 4th Avenue, South— Minneapolis, Minn.

INNEAPOLIS™

HEAT REGULATOR
T COAL~GAS~- OIL

The,

Clock Type Thermostat
(LOW VOLTAGE)

2. You need a regulator ‘that will auto-
matically shut down your fire at night
to a lower temperature and raise it back
to day-time normal before you arise in
the morning —for the sake of economy,
comfort and SAFETY!

Permanent Dependability

3. You need a regulator that will keep on
functioning with accuracy indefinitely
—without the need of adjustment or re-
placement of parts.

The Answer

The only automatic regulator that
will perform these functions is one
that is actuated by a low voltage
clock-type thermostat in which the
sensitive element is a thermostatic
bi-metallic coil. Our own labora-
tories, years ago, proved the wisdom
of making only this one type of
thermostat which has always been
the Minneapolis standard.

Pioneers in Automatic
Heat Regulation

Forty years ago the first Minneapolis
Heat Regulator was sold—and it is still
functioning satisfactorily. In all these
forty years, the name Minneapolis
has been to most people, a synonym
for automatic heat regulation. More
Minneapolis Heat Regulators have
been sold than all other types combined.

Profit by the experienceof hundreds of 2803 Fourth Ave. So.,
Minneapolis, Minn.
This couponwill help Please send me your free
solve your pr oblem ation of Wy ae. a.
of home heating. Plane”, and full information on
Send it in today.

thousands of families who
have been enjoying the
many benefits of Minne-
apolis Regulation on all
types of heating plants!
Get real automatic
control on your oil

or gas burner by
insisting that it be

Minneapolis
equipped.

|
|

(Continued from Page 218)
along the approximate terms of the British
settlement, and payments of principal and
interest spread over sixty years?

We should have a number of alternatives
to ¢lidose from ‘a artiving at a policy te-
ward the retirement of our public debt.
First, we could continue our own sinking
fund as it is now functioning, whereby $10,-
000,000,000 of the debt will be redeemed by
1946, apply the $12,000,000,000 of princi-
pal from foreign debtors to the elimination
of the remainder of our own debt during the
sixty-two-year period, and devote the pay-
ments of interest from abroad to current op-
erating expenses of the Government, and
effect a further decrease in taxes. Second,we
could continue our sinking fund as at pres-
ent constituted and planned, apply the
payments of principal and interest from our
debtors toward the retirement of the remain-
der of our debt, and thus extinguish the en-
tire outstanding amount much before the
time when the last of the payments are due
from Europe at the end of thesixty-two-year
period. Third, we could readjust our sink-
ing fund to make it cover a period of sixty
years instead of twenty more, utilize pay-
ments of foreign principal to reduce our own
debt, and apply the sums released by the
readjustment of our own sinking fund and
the amounts received as interest payments
to effect a larger decrease in taxation.

The third alternative is mainly objection-
ablebecause it would involve a change in our
sinking fund. We have accustomed our-
selves to it as a budget item, it is not ar un-
duly heavy burden on us, and by carrying
it to a successful culmination in the retire-
ment of $10,000,000,000 of the debt by 1946,
we should then be in a position to deal with
such part of the debt as might unavoidably
be thrown back upon us by the failure of
any of our debtors to live up to the agree-
ments which they had entered into, and the
proceeds from which we had counted upon
for retirement purposes.

Locking Ahead Sixty Years

The second alternative has one serious
drawback. That part of our outstanding
public debt not covered by the provisions
of our own sinking fund, $12,000,000,000,
is equal to the amount of principal due us
from the war loans. By applying these
payments of principal to the retirement of
our own debt, all of it would be eliminated at
the end of the sixty-two-year period without
any recourse to taxation of our citizens for
that purpose except, of course, for our own
sinking fund and for such cases as might be
brought about by the failure of any of our
debtors to meet their obligations. However,
by adding to the payments of principal the
amounts received as interest, and using
both to decrease our public debt, it would
disappear much more rapidly. We should
have received sufficient sums as principal
and interest to wipe out our debt many
years before the last of the payments of
principal and interest were due from Eu-
rope. When we bear in mind the fact that
in the funding of $12,000,000,000 over a
period of sixty-two years along the terms of
the British agreement, the total of the
last payments should approximate $500,-
000,000, the situation which would exist
during the latter part of that sixty-two-year
period will be readily apparent, That sum
and those which preceded it for a number of
years would be free revenue of the Govern-
ment at that time to be used either for tax-
reduction purposes or for expenditure for
expansion of the Government. Would that
be a healthy situation to place the Govern-
ment in, and would it be just as between
the taxpayers of the present and the tax-
payers of the future? Certainly it might
not be conducive to good administration of
the Government in the future. Large sums
coming in out of a clear sky might result in
extravagance accompanied by waste and
other unfortunate occurrences. The injus-
tice of the situation would lie in the fact that
all the sacrifice would have been per-
formed by the present generation of tax-
payers, They carried the burden of heavy

THE SATURDAY

taxation for the war, they would have
borne the load of retiring the debt, they

would have preserved the Government and |
its liberties, and not only would have turned |
it over to the future generation of taxpayers |
debt funded but would also have bequeathed |
to them the large assets under the unpaid |

foreign debts from which they would re-
ceive annually for a number of years a sub-
stantial sum. The occurrence of such a
situation would be something unique in

the financial history of nations, It might |

not be inappropriate to suggest that if that
sort of condition came about at some fu-
ture date, it might even prove a hindrance
to the collection of some part of the amounts
then still unpaid.

Interest Payments

The first alternative is the one which de-
serves serious attention. For the present,

at least, our own sinking fund should re- |

main unchanged. The payments of prin- |

cipal under foreign debts should be devoted |

as received toward the redemption of such |

of our debt as may be outstanding at the
time. The disposition of incoming interest
payments should remain an open question
for the present, to be discussed calmly and
studied thoughtfully.

The interest which we have to pay each |

year on the bonds and other obligations
which are outstanding as our public debt,
forms an interesting topic which is more or
less intimately related to the interest pay-
ments which we may receive on the money
that we have loaned. During the past fiscal
year we paid out as interest to the holders
of interest-bearing government securities
approximately $880,000,000. This repre-
sents interest on the entire public debt, ir-
respective of whether the proceeds from the
bonds which constitute the debt were loaned
to foreign nations or used for our own ex-
penditures during the war. The money

necessary to make this large interest pay- |
ment came out of the Treasury as the |
result of current taxation. Theinterest pay- |

ments during the past fiscal year from the

foreign nations which have already funded |
their debts amounted approximately to |

$135,000,000. This sum was not placed in
the Treasury as an offset to the interest out-
lay of $880,000,000, but"was applied to a
retirement of the principal of the debt.

The debt settlements effected thus far |
provide for interest at the rate of 3 per cent |
for the first ten years, and thereafter at the |

rate of 34 per cent. The average rate of |

interest paid by the Government on the |

bulk of its bonds outstanding is slightly
over 4 per cent. It can be seen, therefore,

that the difference between what we might |

reasonably expect to get as interest from
the $12,000,000,000 which is due, and what
we are paying the holders of our bonds on
the same amount of debt, is in excess of
$100,000,000 annualiy. This margin, of
course, will narrow as we refund our bonds
at a lower rate of interest and as the pay-
ments of principal from Europe grow larger.
The illustration is demonstrative of the
probable situation which cannot be avoided
for the present.

There is much to be said in favor of a |
rapid reduction of the public debt, and there |
may be some differences of opinion as to |
what constitutes rapidity. The more speed- |

ily we reduce the debt, the less interest we

shall have to pay each year. That in itself |
is a relief to the taxpayer unless the money |

released from interest payments leads to its
expenditure for some unnecessary object.
The whole matter simmers down to the

problem of what we shall do with interest |
payments as they are received under debt |

settlements. Is it more important to apply
them toward a further reduction in the out-
standing principal of the public debt, or to

use them to grant further relief to the pres- |

ent generation of taxpayers? If we use this
interest to further the reduction in the pub-
lic debt, we shall decrease the annual interest
charge which must come from current taxa-
tion, we shall bring about a situation
whereby our debt will be entirely liquidated

before the last of the larger paymentsaredue |

EVENING POST

Exquisite in tone
Exquisite in design
Exquisite in workmanship
Some territories for both jobbers and retailers still open. Write.

CONE LOUD SPEAKER

DEPT. 12

PATHE PHONOGRAPH AND RADIO CORPORATION
20 GRAND AVENUE, BROOKLYN, N., ¥..

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Service cannot stop

The telephone, like the human heart, must repair itself while
The telephone system never rests, yet the ramifica-
tions of its wires, the reach of its cables and the terminals on
Like an airplane that

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its switchboards must ever increase.

has started on a journey across the sea, the telephone must

repair and extend itself while work is going on.

THE SATURDAY

Te cut communication for a single moment would interrupt
the endless stream of calls and jeopardize the well-being and

safety of the community.

called, Fire may break out.

The doctor or police must be
Numberless important business

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Even when a new exchange is built and put into use, service
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that growth has taken place while the service continues.

Since 1880 the Bell System has grown from 31 thousand

to 16 million stations, while talking was going on.

In the last

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to the system, without interrupting the service.

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EVENING POST

under debt agreements with foreign coun-
tries, and we shall give to the future genera-
tion of taxpayers the greater share in the
benefits with none of the burdens. If we
use this interest to effect a further decrease
in taxes now, we shall probably give the pres-
ent generation more equitable treatment
than they would otherwise receive, we shall
stop debt retirement as a burden upon cur-
rent taxation by 1946, we shall let the prin-
cipal payments over the remainder of the
sixty-two-year period complete the redemp-
tion of the public debt, and we shall be-
queath to the future generation the smaller
payments of interest which will be due dur-
ing the then remaining years in such dimin-
ished sums as not to be a temptation to
unwise expenditure.

There are many important details to be
considered in connection with such a deter-
mination. Problems of maturities of our
own outstanding securities, regularity or
irregularity of payments under the funding
agreements, interest rates on refundings of
our own bonds, payments of principal and
interest under the agreements, in the form
of United States securities at par and ac-
crued interest, instead of in gold—these and
other intricate factors will need serious con-

| sideration.

It would seem the part of wisdom not to
make any radical change in our debt re-
tirement policy for the present. It has al-
ready been slowed down by the removal of
those unusual sources of debt reduction
which were available to us during the period
of the fiscal years 1921 to 1925, inclusive.
The question of utilization of interest pay-
ments by our foreign debtors is dependent

October 17,1925

upon the settlements to be effected with
the debtor nations which have not funded.
When those terms are accepted al! around
and we know our position, it will be time
enough to conclude what we want to do with
the proceeds from the payments of interest.
There is no room for discussion as to what
should be done with payments of principal;
they should ge without quibble toward the
retirement of our public debt.

National discussion of the problem will
be helpful, and serious thought should be
given to it by the best minds in the country
to the end that when the proper time ar-
rives we may not take an unwise step. It
does not seem probable in any event that
the amount of tax reduction to come at the
next session of Congress can be influenced
in any appreciable degree by foreign-interest
payments, even if it should be considered
advisable to use them for that purpose.
Debt-funding negotiations sometimes re-
quire a long time. There are a number of
nations to settle with. The agreements,
when entered into by the negotiators, in
many cases must be ratified by their home
governments. We may well await complete
and positive adoption of the terms and base
upon them whatever action may be thought
advisable. Action, even then, insome degree
must bespeculative, for no one is sufficiently
prophetic to foresee what the future may
bring. The best we can do is to seek a solu-
tion based upon what in our humble judg-
ment, and in the light of all the available
facts, would seem to be for the best inter-
ests of posterity, and at the same time equi-
table and honorable as between the present
generation and the one which will succeed it.

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST
(More Than Two Million and a Quarter Weekly)

never authorized.

IS fully protected by copyright and nothing that appears in it may be reprinted,
either wholly or in part, without special permission. The use of our articles or
quotations from them for advertising promotions and stock-selling schemes is

Table of Contents

October 17, 1925
Cover Design by Haskell Coffin

SHORT STORIES

Goliath—F. Britten Austin

Goodness Gracious, Agnes— Marjory Stoneman Douglas
Dirty Work in the Argonne— William Hazlett Upson
The Old Fighter’s Children—Henry Milner Rideout
Wind-Blown— Dana Burnet

Starring Stupe—Sam Hellman

Woof-Woof!— Frank Condon

Me and Beany Write a Book of Poims— Henry A. Shute

ARTICLES

Riding the Circle on Hanging Woman— Mary Roberts Rinehart
My Stupid Dogs— Kenneth L. Roberts

The Fires of Islam— Wythe Williams

Own Your Own Flat—Frank Parker Stockbridge

Tax Reduction and the Public Debt— Martin B. Madden

Lions With the Bow and Arrow—Stewart Edward White
Fashions in Flowers— Elizabeth Frazer

The South American Melting Pot—IJsaac F. Marcosson

Human Nature and Gems—As Tuld to William O. Trapp

SERIALS

A Man of Plots (In five parts)—Ben Ames Williams
Cousin Jane (Fifth part)—Harry Leon Wilson
Spanish Men's Rest (Conclusion)—Donn Byrne

MISCELLANY

Editorials
Short Turns and Encores

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before the date of issue with which it is to take effect.

address label from a recent copy.

A REQUEST FOR CHANGE OF ADDRESS must reach us at least thirty days
Duplicate copies cannot
be sent to replace those undelivered through failure to send such advance notice.
With your new address be sure also to send us the old one, inclosing if possible your

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

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608 FOR | Ot FR 108 FA 101 FA 10) FA 1OE AR 1Ot FA 1Ot FER NO) AR 81) FAB) FORO) FA 18t FER 10F FAN EBE AP 18) FOR 108 APR 18) AAR 184 A 10) FOR 1O) FOR 18) FIO! A 4B AD 16) A 18) AR 18) 218) AR

Sugersoll,

YANKEE

The Most Popular Watch in the World

What a tribute to any article to say that overa period of thirty years’ time
more people have chosen it than any other!

Ingersoll Yankees have been chosen by 60 million people—in all parts of
the world, in all walks of life.

Is there any better demonstration of the quality? Of dependability ? Of
value? Of genuine service?

The Yankee now on sale is a new model with many new features of grace
and beauty—clean-cut, handsome and “easy-to-look-at.”
INGERSOLL SERVICE

Wherever you are, in case an accident puts your Inger- — and send to InGraso.t. Watcu Co., Inc., WaTeRsury,
soll out of commission, you can get quick repair service Conn., where a most complete and efficient Service
at nominal cost. Pack the damaged watch carefully Department is maintained,

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et ai at ee

Yankee Radiolite New Model Junior New Model Midget Waterbury Radiolite

The Yankee with Radi- 75 Handsome, new and im- $49 ,50 For women, girls, and $“) 50 The jeweled Waterbury $ 7 ,50
olite figures .and hands. 2 proved model, Thin; 12- _ small boys, Nickel case; with luminous figures and

Tells time in the dark, size. Nickel case. guaranteed movement. hands. Metal dial.

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— Tia

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7 Sa A - - ~

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST October 17, 1925

Fire leaping from roof to
roof to roof recently destroyed
584 homes in Berkeley, Cal.
A similar fire destroyed 1440
homes in Paris, Texas.
Hundreds of similar cases are
on the fire records.

y Aci
Fite statistics
come home to roost

NOLD statistics of millions of dollars lost through roof

A fires, mean little to the man who has never been
“burnt’’—but every year thousands of home owners pay
the bill.

Fire authorities blame inflammable roofs for a large
proportion of America’s fires and plead for fire-safe roof-
ings. They have endorsed asbestos roofings as the sort of
protection vitally needed by every roof.

The safety of a Johns-Manville Asbestos Shingle roof
costs less in the long run than the risk of inflammable
roofings. Beauty and permanence make these shingles a

lasting improvement that adds greatly to the value of s
your home.
We make many types of Asbestos Shingles and Roll /
Johns-Manville Asbestos Shin- “4 a r} en id} . z
\ oh Chall cote the hatdice Roofings for all kinds of buildings. All are durable, fire- Ae
. flame of the blow torch. Let safe and economical. Mail the coupon in the corner for y
them protect your roof against ee . Ss
' fying sparks. valuable information.
; ,
Z

Johns-Manville Lae.
4 292 Madison Ave.
New York City

4
4 Please send me at
ee 7 once your booklet on
“Re-roofing for the last
4

‘ee Asbestos Shingles “

rene.
yt JOHNS-MANVILLE INC,, 292 MADISON AVENUE AT 4Ist STREET, NEW YORK CITY
BRANCHES IN 63 LARGE CITIES Por Canada: CANADIAN JOHNS-MANVILLE CO., Lid, TORONTO

( Address}

ro cae

fit eedivclinaank ee ae Ss a

Triumph Hatlem

Dessert Spoons

*310

per half-dozen

“Evelyn” Had an Eye for Beauty

She loved the “Triumph” pattern best. You will love it too. Por of all
things beautiful—this newest creation of Wm. Rogers & Son is indeed a
Triumph of Achievement. It symbolizes sixty years of artistry and skill in
the making of fine silverplate It is rightly named— Triumph.

Just ask your dealer to show it to you. Let your eyes enjoy its charm
Then realize its most moderate cost

What could be more esteemed as an anniversary or wedding gift; or
what more useful as an addit ion to the home than this entrancing table-ware!
Reinforced with an extra deposit of silver where the wear is heaviest;

so to its beauty is added a life-time of wear. But you must see it.
. s

Two Tea Spoons for the ‘Price of One™
Send 25¢ and your dealer's name for a sample of the beautiful new Triumph
pattern, and you will recelve W ith faite sample Tea Spoon, directions which

will enable you to obtain another Tea Spoon free of charge through your dealer.

WM ROGERS MFG CO, Dept 5, Meriden, Cenn.

Gentlemen: I am enclosing 2s5¢ for my first tea spoon in your new Triumph
Pattern, to be sent me with instructions as to how I can get a second spoon free
through my dealer. I am giving you my dealer's name also
Rc hecbialies ‘cahsnncsas

OS Re
B Dealer's Name........

Please Print

“City” i

Dessert Forks

*310

per half-dozen

ow well could any one play
on a keyboard like this ?

A piano with half its notes, a violin with half its
strings, muted or missing. Could they be played? Yes,
but the performance would not be as good as it should
be. In any present form of reproduced music there are
many notes which do not “register” or do not maintain
their proportionate volume.

The genius of Paderewski, of Kreisler, Caruso,
Stokowski, as it has been given to the world in the form
of Victor Records has been a thing of beauty and delight
in spite of restrictions under which all artists were com-
pelled to perform. The day has come when the finest
results hitherto secured will be surpassed beyond belief.

Incessant, and it seemed interminable, labors have
found a way to make use of another scientific fact. An
entirely new principle and an entirely new approach to
the whole problem of reproducing music have created an
instrument which in performance and in principle is
entirely new.

OCTOBER 30th. Make a note of the date.

It will be the day when your whole conception of music
in the home will be changed for all time.

There is but one Victrola and that is made by the Victor Company
Look for these Victor trade marks

Vi ctro la

Victor Talking Machine Co. of Cenada, Led., Montreal
Canadian price-list on request

OR TFHaQarPeuHONI®#

“True in Sound”